


and indeed there will be time

by fictier



Series: per aspera ad astra [1]
Category: Death Note
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, ace light yagami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 121,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictier/pseuds/fictier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L is the greatest detective of not only this century, but of six centuries. And then there's Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Us Go Then, You and I -

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on tumblr.
> 
> Also, heavily influenced by The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

_For I have known them all already, known them all:_  
_Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,_  
_I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;_  
_I know the voices dying with a dying fall_  
_Beneath the music from a farther room._  
_So how should I presume?_

 _And I have known the eyes already, known them all—_  
_The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,_  
_And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,_  
_When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,_  
_Then how should I begin_  
_To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?_  
_And how should I presume?_

(“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, T.S. Eliot)

 

_Artwork by[pashmina-dhaage](http://pashmina-dhaage.tumblr.com/post/126432914142/based-on-this-fic-by-lawlietismyfavorite-which-is). Do not repost without permission._

 

 

 

 

“He passed away so quickly, didn’t he? Gone so soon.”

“They must’ve loved each other very much.”

“To die, holding hands and asleep… They aged together beautifully.”

Lawliet’s gaze hardens from underneath the crimson umbrella, listening to the strangers standing around them. They all stand in the graveyard, the ground littered with leaves and suggesting a vaguely sinister change of seasons, the clouds spitting cold rain at them with apparent contempt. Mihael tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket, coughing against the wall of frigid air that compresses against all of their chests, his sleeves too short and leaving his wrists exposed to the early springtime air. Mail sniffles slightly, his nose running, the allergens spinning through the air reluctant to allow him room to breathe. They stare at the hole in the ground, bleak and unforgiving, comprised entirely of dirt; it offers no answers, no consolation, except to remind Lawliet of his own longevity.

_[In like a lion, out like a lamb, they always said. A preposterous expression. Everything was always a battle.]_

And as such, those reminders can hardly be considered reassuring in nature; all the world provides is silence. Lawliet casts a sideways look at the pair, noticing the grey hairs at the sides of their temples, curling into the rest of their hair. He notes the wrinkles creasing on their foreheads, drawing maps and lines that speak of nothing more than their history together. His jaw tightens, but his expression betrays nothing.

_What do I need successors for, anyways?_

To live forever was to gain experience, and he was never going to need anyone else. The world was his book to learn, only he'd been reading it for quite some time.

Next to him, Nate murmurs:

“After these prayers, we should go. The ceremony’s almost over.”

Nate, at least, hasn’t started aging yet. Not Quillsh, either.

Lawliet presses his lips into a thin line and raises the cuff of his suit jacket to his lips, biting it softly and twisting it to straighten its fit, his teeth sinking into the fabric. Regardless of how long he’s lived, he never finds suits comfortable; they restrict the movement of his limbs, and he feels suffocated. Although, he must concede, the evolution of clothes through the years has certain wrought improvements. His twenty-first century plain, long-sleeved t-shirt and slacks are, by far, his preferred garments. They certainly beat the omnipresent wool of the Middle Ages, or the comparatively unnecessarily exuberant breeches and cravats of the dreaded colonial era.

And at least he no longer has to sport those ridiculous knee-high stockings. He narrows his eyes at the precise thought, and supposes that the presence of the suit jacket – while still dismal – is perhaps not as comparatively repugnant.

The rain sputters and slips down his neck, bypassing the umbrella and leaping to drench the back of his hair that never could quite be tamed. Nate, refusing to bring an umbrella, stands crooked among the tombstones, a ghostly pale figure. Mail and Mihael stand in stark contrast, somehow radiant and all sharp angles in spite of the atmosphere. The tombstones are like teeth seeping through the ground, bared at the crowd gathered around the casket and the priest droning on through the clouds, seemingly unaware of the apparent inattention of the crowd who, by all appearances, expresses desire only for the prospect of dispersing from the graveyard. Holy words are worth, irreverently, nothing.

The only word to describe Lawliet himself, he knows, is nothing particularly exuberant – he could be categorized merely only as fatigued.

It took him centuries and thousands of case examinations to learn, but life is nothing more than a game of patterns.

“Hey, there. Ryuzaki,” Mihael says quietly under his breath, his head tipped forward and his curtain of blonde hair falling over his cheekbones like it’s concealing a secret as he whispers the alias. It’s almost impossible to discern his scar from the angle at which Lawliet peers at him, but such a fact doesn’t erase the existence of the scar itself. “Where’s Quillsh at, anyways?”

“He stayed back at the orphanage. He proposed something about being there to sort through the utility bills for the month,” Lawliet murmurs evenly, his voice smoothly monotonous and hanging in their air between them. “He assured me it was a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Important enough to miss one of his students’ funerals? Damir would’ve cared very much.”

“I know. But…mmm. It would appear that it was rather important to handle such matters.”

Lawliet watches, grey eyes keen on the ground and sharply analyzing the scene as the priest reads a few final words from his ridiculously ornate bible gilded with the intricacies of vibrant reds and golds. The oversized mahogany casket holds the bodies of the two lovers – how else could they possibly be laid to rest? They were each others’ only Ones. They lived together and so they died together, wrapped in an eternal embrace. Instead of filling Lawliet with appreciation, the sentiment just exhausts him. Perhaps there’s nothing more to call it other than mere indifference, but he has no room in his stomach to feel remorse or loss regarding Damir. It’s almost certain that Quillsh feels the same – almost a one hundred percent chance. Quillsh has seen too many successors rise and fall with the years.

But Lawliet no longer has to calculate. The numbers are all lined up in his mind.

It’s no wonder he’s such a brilliant detective. There are only a finite number of patterns the world can follow, and no such patterns have had the grace to lead him into a pit in the ground.

_None of this surprising. Only tired._

He runs a finger down the line of his jawbone, and finds himself chewing on his thumb – an old habit that no amount of time could erase. He closes his eyes and feels the rain lacerate the skin of his face, feeling in his soul that his life and every second of its duration are channeling the fate of the old prince, Hamlet, gossamer and reluctant in every capacity. The cells of his body are taking their time, because, after all, there will be time.

_Artwork by[rippernik](http://rippernik.tumblr.com/post/139081624426). Do not repost without permission._

 

 

They may as well be ghosts – he and Near and Quillsh. They don’t belong in the land of the living with Mihael and Mail; perhaps that’s why they choose to view the world as an experiment, to toy with its mechanisms and mysteries like clock makers.

_We may as well be ghosts... We're in the graveyard, already halfway there._

“Time to go,” Mail mutters under his breath as the priest closes the bible; he’s always one for constant movement, like his skin is itching for him to writhe with motion. But he’s correct – the impractical and ungraceful task of actually lowering the casket into the ground will happen after the party of onlookers has all but entirely dissipated, and no one is eager to continue to be soaked to the bone in the name of commemoration.

The scene is one of indifference. Lawliet casts a final glance at the coffin holding his student, Damir, and his wife; they were each other’s undoing, the seam rippers that tore each other to shreds and stitched each other back again until they were one entity. Damir gave up detective work to take care of her and their children, and worked at an ordinary day job – trading brains for surrendering to his cardiac muscles. And other sorts of muscles, Lawliet supposes. Perhaps it’s risky for he and the others to show their faces at the public ceremony, but Mihael had insisted it was only polite to attend to pay tribute to the mind of such a hardworking gentleman, lack of recent detective work be damned.

It is important, he supposes, to note that he is not merely cynical. Rather, he is indifferent. At least, this is the word by which he bases his thoughts. He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side, staring out at the bit of sky not covered by his bloodred umbrella, grey eyes searching the equally blasé heavens, his mouth a thin line of determined solitude. The sky is the same throughout the ages; granted, the positions of the stars have changed somewhat – as he’s studied astronomy extensively – but the earth is a constant. In such a sense, he considers himself to be one with the bones of the world.

He lazily pulls at the sleeves of his suit once more and, watching his students move to leave, feeling his cells move like all the inner mechanisms of a clock, follows.

_Business as usual._

Lawliet’s body itself is a timepiece, frozen like the cover of a watch, rejecting the abstraction that he might be a bomb waiting to melt at any moment and in turn accepting that he is being buried alive in a silent, unmoving tomb that paradoxically refuses to smother him at all.

He hasn’t aged a single day over eighteen.

_And I never will._

 

* * *

 

Quillsh Wammy wears glasses in front of his clear blue eyes, but just for aesthetic appeal rather than necessity. “You get tired of your own face, after a few hundred years,” he jokes, and Lawliet never laughs, only purses his lips. “You need to do something to change it up.”

Lawliet supposes Quillsh is determined not to find his One; or something of the sort. He’s never found interest in someone, not even casually; he buries himself in work, studying all sorts of topics so that he may guide the students of their orphanage. The orphanage that doubles as an academy.

They call it Wammy's House. Lawliet finds himself sarcastically protesting on occasion, curious as to why it was never called Wammy and Lawliet’s House, but of course they both know the answer; it’s been a few centuries since the name Lawliet was last used as a means of identifying the detective, but people would still recognize it, especially those few who were still around. They all crossed circles, soon enough, if they had been around so long. The ones who could still remember and pass stories along generations were dangerous.

So he goes by all sorts of aliases, these days; for his clients, he introduces himself as L, or Coil, or Deneuve; he’s little more than a legend to anyone in the general public. Whenever he interacts with people in a more casual fashion, he sometimes adopts the name Ryuzaki, or something more benign. He sheds names like old skins. When he finds a new name, he pretends he’s being reborn. He knows that some people venture to believe in the concept of reincarnation; even though Lawliet finds that ideas proposing the factual existence of afterlives are somewhat implausible, the ideology behind such stories intrigues him, and he pretends that each new name he borrows belongs to a new life. The mirror, however, dispels any such hopes.

He rarely shows his face, when he’s working. Otherwise, they would all know that he was immortal. His clients and the media, they’d recognize him. They would undoubtedly figure out that he had been alive for ages, never growing a day older, his grey eyes trapped in their youthful yet exhausted prison and his hair an indelible jet-black hue of ink, his pale skin set like marble. He also wouldn’t dare risk his life, presenting his face obviously to potential criminals.

So, Lawliet works from within Wammy’s House. He uses his computer to communicate with his clients for solving some of the most curious cases of heinous, unpredictable activity.

His office comprises a quiet corner of the mansion, his room stuffed with books along the shelves, a grand piano nestled in the corner. If he sleeps, he sleeps in the armchair lined along the wall; but he rarely bothers with rest.

Although he’s been alive since the fifteenth century, the world holds too much for him, and he is constantly working on perfecting his mind.

He doesn’t wear glasses; he’s not like Quillsh. He doesn’t care enough for his exterior to even want to change it.

 

* * *

 

_It’s been six hundred years._

L Lawliet has never found his One.

His parents had both been aging together when they had him; grey hairs lined the roots of their heads and they had begun to feel something ancient pulling at their bones and dragging them into the quietness of sleep. They taught a young Lawliet about the mechanisms of the world – that everyone ages until they’re eighteen years old, and then they stop aging until they’ve found their One, their soulmate. Soulmates – they age together, and die together.

They died when Lawliet had been eighteen for two years; but they didn’t die of natural causes. Their home had caught fire while Lawliet was out working, his mind reaching for the early glimmerings of philosophy that he managed to grasp. He was so terribly sharp, even before he learned to train his mind.

He didn’t cry when he found that they had died. He steeled his resolve, and moved along, grateful for the small miracle that at least they had been together. After all, there is no agony quite akin to that of Ones who die separately – they are constantly bound to be lost, one without the guidance and love of the other: a perpetual agony of mistaken paradise.

Lawliet didn’t cry when he went twenty more years without any traces of aging lacing his body. He found that nothing pulled him deep in his stomach; nothing compelled him to melt underneath someone’s gaze, and nothing begged him to submit to the merits of love or lust. He found himself intrigued by puzzles and philosophy, so he buried himself in such things, the pieces of the world fitting together as he sought with all of his mind to understand the fundamental questions that provided the cornerstone for the phenomenon of existence. Learning and working simultaneously, he was somehow wholly unsurprised when he woke every morning with no wrinkles or lines gracing his face.

Forty more years passed. Then, sixty more after that.

The world changed in front of him, and still nothing.

In the seventeenth century, Lawliet – ever the pragmatist – began to suspect that he was simply not going to find his One.

He attended too many funerals of friends, and learned that such events compelled him into preferring solitude. Knowledge, at least, wasn’t likely to be buried underneath the ground, or wait for a sinkhole to open and lure for him to fall in.

_What is more important than justice, than life?_

_Kindness._

 

* * *

 

 

Increasingly heavily preoccupied by solitude and leading a wholly lackluster existence, Lawliet was grateful to find Quillsh Wammy in the 1800s. Quillsh was working as a candlemakers’ apprentice, and Lawliet worked at a bookshop, perpetually plagued by the existence of knee socks. Quillsh, also rooted in the age of eighteen, stopped by the shop every day to engage Lawliet in philosophical conversations about the different merits and methods of teaching in the present, and Lawliet – eager to oblige – shared his various perspectives with Quillsh, engaging and challenging his own intellectual and deductive abilities by playing devil’s advocate and sharing his personal opinions in equal capacities.

Although Lawliet checks himself and subconsciously examines Quillsh for signs of aging, he finds none.

They became inseparable, perhaps on principle.

Once, long ago, Quillsh had promised Lawliet that he'd stay with him until the day one of them was no longer alive.

 

* * *

 

In the present, Lawliet pours over The Picture Of Dorian Gray. It’s been one of his favorites since its debut, near to the turn of the twentieth century. His brain comprises a sort of poetry as he lets the lines soak into his skin –

“’You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit’…” he whispers to himself. “’Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes…’”

 _I suppose that holds some merit._ Tired eyes, tired hands, lips unbitten and fatigued of the monotony.

The book is undoubtedly rife with beautiful lines, but he is somehow unaffected by their worth; perhaps it’s not unlike his experience with letting the rain bleach him earlier, in that capacity – perhaps he’s incapable of viewing anything with the sort of emotional lens that might allow such things to be lent to greater meaning. All he can consider is that at the moment, he hasn’t chosen to occupy himself with any cases, and it’s not unlike he’s staring at the hole full of dirt from earlier, standing on the precipice of it and feeling himself want to fall but being wholly incapable of letting himself surrender.

Lawliet understands the world, but he’s frozen. He’s not like Mihael and Mail, in their finite conjoined allure; and he’s not like Damir, literally buried with his sins. The irony of his condition is that he shares the relative – perhaps temporary – promise of immortality with two others, but their emotional isolation leaves him as alone as though he were the only one of his kind.

 

* * *

 

Lawliet had solved his first case as a detective in the late 1800s, and he’s been solving cases ever since. The first one - it had been some sort of murder mystery, a question of who did it. He was roped in to solving more cases by his town’s police force soon afterwards, and he found that the mental stimulation pumped new blood through his veins. The rush from it was greater than that accompanying puzzles, accompanying than word games.

In the late twentieth century, perhaps inspired briefly by a bout of lackluster optimism that he could potentially meet his One, Lawliet – and eventually Quillsh – were convinced that there should be a chance for successors to take his place in the event of his aging or death. They founded Wammy’s House and took in orphans from all across England, but still, there were no signs of aging that graced Lawliet.

He was learning to know better. He had been learning all along.

 

* * *

 

All along, he hadn’t cared who it would be. At the beginning, he had just wanted it to be someone.

Lawliet isn’t sure what he aspires to reach, any longer.

_Simply to be._

 

* * *

 

He’s still flipping listlessly through the pages of Dorian Gray’s woes when Quillsh knocks on his door, running his hands through his pale blonde hair, cheeks flushed. “Lawliet,” he says, breathless.

Lawliet doesn’t lift his head, just flicks a page over lazily. “Mmmh.” His fingers and arms are the hands of a clock, pieces of a puzzle, omnipresent and steady – and still somewhat sticky from having snacked on strawberries coated in sugar only hours earlier. He’s changed back into his typical white shirt and blue pants, a fit that more suitably accompanies his level of comfort – the glow from his computer screen, proclaiming an ornate letter “L” on the display, reflects onto his shirt and illuminates his chest.

It’s as though his room is timeless, but he’s still a timepiece. He feels the seconds resting on his bones like dust. But –

“It’s about _Beyond_ ,” Quillsh whispers, ducking into the room and checking the hallway, ensuring that no one could overhear their conversation. “He was found…dead. In his cell.”

Instead of the moments slowing, they seem to quicken.

Lawliet’s eyes flick up dangerously, the rest of his body entirely, unsettlingly still as he crouches in the chair, legs tucked underneath his abdomen, the toes of his bare feet twisting and curling as his mind races. “Did he –"

“He didn’t find his One,” Quillsh says softly. “You may be interested to know…he died of a…heart attack. But there’s more than that… I think you’re going to want to see this.”

For a brief, almost cynical, moment, Lawliet thinks he hears his heart beating clearly in his ears, like the universe is whispering to him that these moments carry more weight than any of the ones from the past six hundred years.

He knows enough about the calculations and probabilities and polarities and dualities of the world to attribute such absurd sensibilities to his mere imagination.

_Funerals can do that to people._


	2. Would It Have Been Worth While, To Have Bitten Off the Matter with a Smile –

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawliet doesn’t fit into these boxes, but he still supposes in the back of his mind he might be halfway there anyways. He’s been raised for this, he was born for it, and they all were; even so, his hands are the only ones that are cracked dry from the drought of his own existence.

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent  
_ _To lead you to an overwhelming question ...  
_ _Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”  
_ _Let us go and make our visit._

_In the room the women come and go  
_ _Talking of Michelangelo._

_The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,  
_ _The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,  
_ _Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,  
_ _Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,  
_ _Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,  
_ _Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,  
_ _And seeing that it was a soft October night,  
_ _Curled once about the house, and fell asleep._

 

 

Aceline had committed suicide.

Of the legalized-assisted variety, that is to say.

Lawliet knows the story like it’s written across his palms, because of course it is.  It’s a familiar tale he knows all too well, but one that he can never fully comprehend. It is perhaps beyond his depths. Aceline -- she’d met her One when she was out working on a case one day.  It was a classic incident of an obscure relative deciding to take revenge on her One’s father, and she was determined to solve the predicament. When they’d met, she and her One, there had been chemistry, undoubtedly; she’d confessed her jumbled state of mind to Lawliet inadvertently one evening not long afterward, when she’d had such-and-such too many glasses of red wine and her lips were stained crimson, her dark hair falling in front of her face and covering her joyful shame that she suspected this one could be special.

Lawliet had merely raised an eyebrow, and dryly flipped the page of the book he was reading with one flick of his fingers. “Mmm.  Is that so,” he said, his voice monotonous and wholly lackluster, but perhaps Aceline had been too far lost to notice his cynicism. Either that, or she simply couldn’t be bothered by Lawliet’s characteristically demonstrated disinterest, the glass of liquid stars in her hand blurring her eyes.  He wasn’t sure if he gave a damn; he'd had a handful of disinterested phases.

She was his best pupil.  She was his best mind.

They’d been together since Wammy’s House had initially come to be.  She’d grown up in the orphanage, her dark eyes staring at the world every bit as analytically as Lawliet himself, but with less ambivalence, perhaps.   Her body stretched for twelve years after she initially arrived, and then on her birthday she froze. Lawliet had always been convinced that she was immortal, and she stayed that way for a long enough while, long enough that he was comfortable with the pace of the present.

That was, at least, until she went on a first date with her One, after the case was closed.  They met again for coffee, and within a matter of days she found the first grey hairs furrowing at her temple, and they knew that everything was set in stone, and Lawliet knew the stone that built the foundation of the person he’d grown to value was about to crumble.

He watched with his lips pressed thinly together, attending the marriage and staring as they grew out of the burden of immortality, sanctifying their ultimate promise to each other – what greater honor could there be, than to live and to die together? – and becoming fully fledged members of society.  She was still a detective, and her One kept his job, too, but the crux of the matter was that Lawliet simply didn’t trust Aceline’s judgment as he once had. Her brain was severed by the presence of love that seemed to otherwise fill her.

Things froze, again, for a while longer, at least until Aceline’s One passed away.  He’d been commuting to his work – some dull office job, Lawliet supposed dismissively – when he’d been struck by another car; his neck snapped.

Before she even knew what happened, Aceline was suddenly lying on the floor, uncharacteristically panicking and her breath coming to her but fluttering away like it were some sort of gossamer liquid she just couldn’t digest, all of her meltdown in the middle of the day in the communal lounge area with the other students.  Lawliet and Wammy had jumped to their feet, instinctively supposing the reason for such an outburst; after all, they’d seen it before. Lawliet feels his heart turn to stone, and grimly braces for the inevitable, a work of marble in every bit of his limbs.

_(If there was one place wherein Lawliet always found himself, or at least became conscious of the sheer phenomenon of his existence, it was in churches.  For funerals, and for weddings.  He’d seen them all, and everytime it made him think of the orphans still at Wammy’s, compelling him to suppose that the people who were able to avoid existential questions were the ones with all the luck.  The thought always hard on the heels of the aforementioned suppositions was always the irony that he was attending to people whose parents had lived and died, in some capacity, in the name of love; it was as though he were the immortal parent.)_

It was easy to see the way Aceline melted after her One passed.  She kept aging, because once you start aging you never stop – but it was more than that. It was visible enough that the pain in her muscles stiffened her movements, and that her misery bound her mind such that she was incapable of solving cases as she once did. Lawliet hardly found it surprising when, one morning, he woke from the briefest of dizzying nightmares and he called out for her all throughout the mansion, but she was gone. He found the factual truth when he saw the grim lines of Quillsh’s mouth later on in the night, but the reality was that in no certain terms he’d known all along.  It always happened that way.

She chose peace over immortality; she left him.

It always happened that way.

And after Aceline, there had been Beyond.

And nothing had been the same since that hellish creature twisted himself into Lawliet’s spine.

 

* * *

 

 

There were some darknesses in their world; Beyond was one of such things.

Lawliet supposes that the overwhelming societal emphasis on finding someone – a person, another human being – to complete the experience of living is an even greater evil.  The idea of waiting for someone – for one person, only one – to change someone’s entire world is worth nothing more than the dirt underneath his fingernails or the umbrella that’s built to be spit upon by rain in every instance of miserable weather; certainly one person could never change the world, not even the world of one individual.

But the lack of finding the bond of a soulmate drives people to commit suicide all across the board; it happens all too often that those who had been waiting for too long for their Ones finally deduce the idea that no one may be coming to save them, ever.  Or they start aging suddenly, with no clue of who their One might be; after all, it takes only one glance or touch to catalyze the aging process. But for those who are lost – perhaps they were born in another century, or died before they were able to meet properly. It’s rare that human beings last to six hundred years, as long as Lawliet’s been alive – naturally, there are the few cults that reject societal norms and are bent on surviving through the ages to perfect the human experience, but the idea that life is incomplete without someone permeates every second that they breathe and filters through the airs and manifests itself in all of their cells until it’s something that they simply cannot ignore. 

Love is a concept they cannot live without. They are not strong enough.

(It’s safe to say that Lawliet is as curious as he is scared.)

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Lawliet wonders how anyone finds each other at all.  He was curious about such an experience when he was younger; how did anyone find their One when the radius of some communities was so small?  How was it possible that in a world so large, anyone could find the only person they were destined to be with?

He refuses to suspect that fate - ridiculous construct as it is - plays a part in the means of bringing people together; instead, perhaps a key facet in the entire mechanism of society is the idea of the opening of the mind, the willingness to surrender. They’re trained from early on to learn that love is the only thing that matters, so their professions revolve around their interests in the hopes that they will find their soulmates; they spend their time at school learning about how to open themselves to others just as much as they learn concrete facts.

Lawliet doesn’t fit into these boxes, but he still supposes in the back of his mind he might be halfway there anyways. He’s been raised for this, he was born for it, and they all were; even so, his hands are the only ones that are cracked dry from the drought of his own existence.

 

* * *

 

 

He thinks himself a monster – constantly, but especially whenever he thinks of Beyond and sees his own reflection with bloodred eyes, glaring at him.

“Bastard,” he mutters, and brushes away the past with a quick gesture. 

This is what he sees in his mind when he thinks of all murders. 

This is what he thinks when he follows Quillsh down the hallways of Wammy’s House in the hours following Damir’s funeral.

 

* * *

 

 

Beyond Birthday had an ironic name, or at least he did when he was alive.  His name speaks for all of them, all of the immortal ones; he perpetually lived beyond his eighteenth birthday, never growing a day older.  His wisdom survived beyond his birthdays, especially as the rest of him refused to just drop dead equally much. 

_Or, at least, that’s what he’d want us to think._

Lawliet wasn’t sure how long Beyond had actually lived for before he came to Wammy’s House, just a few days after Aceline’s death. He merely showed up one day, leaning on the porch step, a subtly devilish smile twitching at his lips. He didn’t even look much like Lawliet to begin with, except for the largeness of the eyes – which were stained bloodred at the irises even back then – and the bent thinness of his frame. The two of them were similar mirrors of youthfulness, if nothing else, but the vaguely reassuring image of youthfulness be damned, Lawliet felt shivers down his spine the moment he laid eyes on the kid – and his feelings of apprehension are never wrong. Lawliet, as a rule, is never _wrong_.

Beyond, the kid – he could’ve been eighteen, but he could’ve been younger.  But they took him in, and he started to train as a detective, working closely with L and seemingly driven by an interesting sort of fervor.

The only problem was, sometimes Beyond Birthday disappeared.

The last time he did, they didn't find him for months – and when they did stumble onto him, he was badly burned and barely recognizable.

After the last time he disappeared, he and Lawliet met again with the bars of a jail cell separating them, two sides of an immortal mirror, and Lawliet had no interest in finding out which side was real and which side was hell.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet knows in his heart, as he follows Quillsh Wammy down that hallway, Beyond was always a master with makeup. Lawliet knows, perhaps instinctively, that Beyond had lived for centuries, likely stretching even earlier than his own years, a compilation of broken birthdays that only became more convulted as time progressed and left its mark on them – as it always does, even if their bodies do not obvious crack. 

He can just tell, and the silence is a poisonous key to understand any of it.

He thinks of all the unsolved murder cases through the years he'd learned about through morbid means of scouring the Internet and watching ridiculous documentaries that do in fact hold their roots in truth; he thinks of all the cases he’s failed to address for lack of accessible information, and shivers to know that Beyond was likely behind a decent amount of them.

_But now, Beyond Birthday is dead._

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about criminals is that the worst kind – the ones that Lawliet handles, the ones whose sins bleed in them from the inside out, the ones who mistake moral commandments for flexible rules – they wind up dying, too, often alone.  The people in charge give criminals a specifically lethal drug that catalyzes the chemicals of the aging process, and slowly, fully aware of their broken covenants with society, they age and fall apart with death.  It keeps the population levels reasonable, and serves as sufficient punishment.  Some people never do find their Ones.

Lawliet thinks of Beyond, and dully hypothesizes about why he is so repulsed from the cavern of his heart to the tips of his fingers.

He never could bear to let someone give Beyond the drug, the catalyst for aging.  He pulled enough weight with the prison system that he was able to request as much. Beyond died without having to age. Beyond died while watching everyone around him die.  Beyond knew when they were going to die, and was powerless to save himself. He might have died quickly with the interruption of the heart attack ripping into his chest, but he’d been burning hellishly since the very first day.  The fire they found him ravaged by was the physical equivalent of his feverish mind.

But even so, he had something Lawliet didn’t have.

_(Will never have.)_

 

* * *

 

 

Beyond never told Lawliet if he would die, or when.

 

* * *

 

 

(Lawliet is selfish and childish. Society has denied him the privilege to research all facets of life, and Beyond – the one with all the answers – couldn’t adorn him with a single clue.

 _Wouldn’t_ adorn him with a single clue.)

 

* * *

 

 

When Quillsh and Lawliet step into the quiet office in the back of the mansion, the first thing Lawliet notices is the cooler of wine on the floor.  Some of it appears to have been spilled onto the floor, and it resembles blood seeping into the cracks of the floor.  Disgusting. He never could stomach wine, as it felt too much like fire and stars.  He associates it with Aceline, so he supposes it also felt too much like loss – if he were to concede he experienced loss at all, that is.  His gaze hardens as he stares around the room. “Quillsh,” he says smoothly, his voice a master of the calm collectedness he has spent centuries practicing. “What’s the meaning of this? Please, do explain.”

Quillsh pushes his glasses on the bridge of his nose, pausing at the entrance and simply staring into the room, as though it’s impossible for him to simultaneously explain the fevered spinning mechanisms of his mind while also processing that his legs should be moving.  One would suppose, Lawliet silently muses, that centuries of practicing both walking and talking would prepare him better for this. “Over the past week,” he murmurs evenly, his voice calm and informative as usual, “there has been a mysteriously large amount of criminals dying from…heart attacks.”

“A coincidence, most people would suppose.” _Most._   Lawliet doesn’t include himself in this assessment, but even so, he narrows his eyes skeptically at his partner.  “Mmm.  However…”

“Look at this,” Quillsh mutters, moving forward and jumping to the computer.  The room is furnished with dark, elegant leather, with desk space lining every wall; his oversized computer screen fills half of the space of the open back wall, glowing with an enormous letter “W” for Wammy, in the same font as Lawliet’s.   “Look at these statistics.” With a wave of the computer mouse, the “W” dissolves and is replaced with a complex array of graphs that Lawliet has to squint at to fully discern.  “The heart attacks are concentrated only in Japan.  All of this…it’s happened within one week. Fifty-two are dead. Fifty-two, all of heart attacks. Including Beyond. And…”

Quillsh coughs, pushing his glasses up onto his nose again, flipping through more pages of data.  Lawliet watches the scene dully, but even so, he’s somewhat intrigued; something pulls and stirs in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that is further compounded upon when he scours his brain to find the statistics that should pile on top of one another and outline the case clearly, only to find that he has no reservoir of information he can tap into. This sort of criminal activity…seems to be unparalleled, at least in his immediate memory.

His mind flashes to Beyond.

“The International Criminal Police Organization…they’re going to reach out to you.  Any moment,” Quillsh whispers, turning to face Lawliet, who is calmly folding and pushing back his sleeves so that they stop their incessant slipping over his elbows. “You do realize…”

“It would, in fact, appear as though these are all mere coincidences,” Lawliet returns evenly, “but the fact that such a phenomenon occurred only in Japan certainly necessitates some sort of investigation.” He pauses, considering the facts laid in front of him.

He envisions Damir’s casket, the shine of Aceline’s hair lit by something impossibly celestial, the burnt crimson eyes of Beyond Birthday staring at him, and somehow it’s as though blood is flowing through his veins.  Or at least, if nothing else, he is conscious of the way it courses through him and compels his heart to keep beating.  If it’s already been beating for six hundred years, it may as well beat for six hundred more….and stumble upon some new statistics and case studies along the way.

“Perhaps it’s not unreasonable to suspect that we’re being faced with an…atrocious act of mass murder.  But the method….”  He frowns and bites his lip, tasting the copper of his own skin gracing his tongue. “I believe, if we were to be approached with solving this case, we would require outside assistance. The nature of these…killings, if that’s what they are…  We would need to investigate, ensure there were no similarities between the criminals other than the fact that they committed crimes, ensure that there were no pills incidentally causing identical physical reactions, eliminate every possibility other than the idea that this could be the result of homicidal intentions….”

With a sudden thought, he accidentally chews into his finger too roughly, and tastes blood in his mouth.  “Check,” he demands quickly, the thought crossing his mind as he stands up straight, “if the other criminals…if they had received the aging catalyst. You know to what I refer.”

_Beyond had never received the catalyst…_

It wasn’t illegal in Japan to administer the catalyst, even though it was illegal to do so in some other countries....

Indeed, Beyond Birthday had died in Japan, centuries and countries separating the dichotomy of their cities and their minds, but never for even a moment erasing the fact that Beyond himself was the incarnation of Lawliet's questions about humanity.

“Of course, L.” 

Quillsh is the only one who still calls him by his peculiar first name.

Lawliet draws his thumb to his mouth again, tongue swirling around the injury, feeling that perhaps this case – if it indeed manifests into a case at all – could provide him a distraction from the typical indifference of his routine.

_This is most intriguing._

“If the ICPO approaches us,” he adds quietly, “instruct them that I will require the assistance of the Japanese Police Force in orchestrating this investigation.”

“Why….Certainly.”

 

* * *

 

 

Unspoken, they keep their words secretive, even among Nate and Mail and Mihael.

The rest of the day passes slowly, at least until –

Lawliet reads the last sentence outlining Dorian Gray’s plights –

“ _It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was_.”

As if on cue, Quillsh Wammy appears in the doorway.

“Lawliet,” he says softly.  “It’s the ICPO… They asked for you.”

The room is softly bathed in a silver glow from the light of the moon shining outside the window.  Lawliet closes his eyes, feeling the night crash and swell over him like a wave.

Somewhere, something deep inside of him whispers –

_This is the beginning._

(A rather impossible prospect, for Lawliet.) 


	3. Muttering Retreats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawliet won’t be the puppet of some evanescent god, dancing to the beat of someone else’s plans as he searches to find this – this Kira, this being mocking the very institution of justice in Japanese society.

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_ _  
_ _Of insidious intent  
_ _To lead you to an overwhelming question ...  
_ _Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”  
_ _Let us go and make our visit._

 

 

Lawliet frowns slightly and curls his fingers into his hair, watching the rainfall crash against the window with soft, almost methodical clicks. He listlessly bites one thumb, his brain racing analytically, calculating – surely, there had to be some sort of discrepancy he was missing. 

It’s as though his brain is a catalogue, but meanwhile as he’s flipping through all the entries, the world is comprised of pages spinning against his arms faster than he can read.  He knows that finding the answer is not beyond his grasp, but at the moment, he cannot conceptualize a simple solution to the puzzle lying before him.  All the facts align simply enough, but the method and the motive remain shrouded in mystery.

He lets a sigh hiss through his teeth as he uses his other hand to draw something invisible on his desk, listless.

_I'll have to test my theories, if I want any veritable results._

Quillsh was right about the case with the heart attacks – people were scared, and they were beginning to take note.  All of the victims thus far, as Lawliet had initially anticipated, were prisoners who had not been given the aging catalyst; they were convicted of rather serious, and occasionally grotesque, crimes, but none had received the aging catalyst. Their lives were meant for a new kind of death – a purposeless kind, the kind that iconizes the idea of crashing and burning all too soon without having found any sort of purpose, the kind of death that was in no way connected to love, except for the temptation and lust for crime.  Lawliet’s toes curl against the chair as he grits his jaw, his brain considering the implications of the deaths in terms of, simply, life.  These prisoners that were dying – they could never find their Ones.

Was that the point of these deaths – to prevent criminals from having the right to find love, if it were in fact a right at all?  Or was it population control – _or_ perhaps some factor beyond the seemingly obvious rationales?

The slap of every raindrop against the window in Lawliet’s office represents another consideration, and another route down which his brain races to connect the lines drawn in seemingly dichotomous planes.

It had been one week since Quillsh had initially brought Lawliet’s attention to the case; since then, they had monitored the situation, and discovered that forty-six more criminals passed away in the span of one week, all from heart attacks. Someone, Lawliet considered grimly, was busy.  Extensive research had shown that none of the prisoners were given the same sort of medication or food that could potentially cause adverse health effects; the truth of the matter was that, simply, the heart attacks were the result of some outside factor. The only things the victims had in common were the manners and conditions of their demises; that, and their proclivity for crime.

The media, as Lawliet brusquely noted, was beginning to whisper, only drawing subtle allusions to the abruptly lowered crime rates, and the rather high amount of prisoner deaths. It was impossible to ignore that the deaths were limited to the area of Japan alone, and – as Lawliet noticed, from browsing the Internet – there was a new name beginning to surface, to denote the presence of this insurmountable, mysterious harbinger that was allegedly intended to deliver justice –

“Kira,” Lawliet whispers to the nighttime sky and to every raindrop, his hair falling in his eyes as they close, his thoughts wrapping around him like yellow smoke.

For Lawliet is absolutely certain that the heart attacks are not the results of chance, and not the actions of some divine being.  If it were so – that he were chasing after some deity he could never hope to catch, as a mortal in the loose sense of the term, regardless of his longevity – he would stand no chance to catch the perpetrator, and this is not one possibility he’s apt to accept.  Kira, he’s certain, is some mortal being, just as much flesh and blood as himself, only with some perplexing method enabling him and motive driving him. It simply must be so – something whispers to him as much.

_He must be human._

Lawliet hasn’t slept for more than two hours a day since Quillsh delivered the case to him, and when he opens his eyes he catches the brief outline of his reflection shrouded in the window.  He notes the bags stretching to his cheekbones, the way his hair reaches to the sky in strange ways, his pale reflection compelling him to physically resemble the ghost he embodies in every other sense.

Lawliet won’t be the puppet of some evanescent god, dancing to the beat of someone else’s plans as he searches to find this – this Kira, this being mocking the very institution of justice in Japanese society.  It was certain that once Kira knew that it was Lawliet who was searching for him, he would seek to eliminate him, and anyone else standing in his way, certainly. There was simply no way that the powers of Kira belonged to something immortal; such beings did not intervene with earth.  After all, Lawliet noted, no god had blessed him with the possibility of dying; why would as much change now, for him or anyone else?  Surely, all along it had been people who delivered the formal and necessary business of dying to one another; Kira was taking such a philosophy to the next level in the most childish fashion possible.

Delivering someone death, served on a silver platter as divine retribution, was not justice.  He has lived long enough to establish this fact as being certain.

“Kira.”

Lawliet tugs on the sleeves of his long, white shirt, narrowing his eyes at his computer and the papers lying before him.

“Kira, I will find you."

The rain provides no answer, only calls to him, to the rhythm of his own brain sweeping through the night.

“Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

He presses his lips into a thin line _. And it won't be._

Absentmindedly, although he would never confess to himself or anyone otherwise to wondering as much for anything other than practical purposes, Lawliet wonders if the culprit, Kira, has found his One.  Such a question could lead them to conclusions about what kind of person is threading himself into their lives in such an irrevocable, obvious fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet had spoken with the ICPO through Quillsh only once about the case, to express his interest in the case and outline his guidelines for working to unweave the mysteries presented before them.  It was not his first time working with them, and there was a relatively standard procedure they followed: Quillsh, at the last moment, had raced to the headquarters, shrouding himself in a trenchcoat and a hat tipped down low on his head, carrying a laptop through which Lawliet spoke to the members of the ICPO via a voice scrambler.

“Greetings to all of you at the ICPO,” he’d said coolly to the audience he peered into his computer screen to see, examining the haziness of the figures before him, assembled with relative clarity thanks to the small camera at the top of the laptop.  He spoke in English, as Quillsh had informed him that the delegates to the ICPO for the day all spoke English, at least for this meeting. “I…am L.”

He had waited for a moment, waiting for the crash and swell of whispers to simmer, and when they inevitably did, he spoke again.

“The difficulty of this case lies on its unprecedented scope. And make no mistake. We are witnessing an atrocious act of mass murder, one that is unforgivable. This case cannot be solved without the full cooperation of the ICPO.  That is all of the police organizations you represent throughout the world. You need to make the decision to fully support the investigation at this meeting. Also, I require additional cooperation from Japan's National Police Agency.”

“Huh?  What? Why Japan in particular?” someone asked boldly, and Lawliet, squinting, had caught sight of a figure towards the back of the crowd standing to tower above the people around him.

“Whether this guilty party is an individual or a group, there is a strong possibility that they are Japanese. And even if they are not, we can be sure they’re hiding in Japan.”  Lawliet had chewed on his thumb and tilted his head slightly to the side, curling into himself and hugging his legs closer to his chest, the relative darkness of the room enveloping him.

“What is all this based on?” fired the same inquirer. Given his active response, Lawliet inferred that he was the chief of Japan's national police, Chief Soichiro Yagami. He’d heard the name before, floating around in some circles – even if, in more recent years, he’d dealt primarily with crimes based dominantly in England and the wider United Kingdom. He held his hand up to the window, letting the light of the moon float around his fingers, almost as if someone were caressing his skin, even if he knew he was solitary.

“Why Japan, you ask?” Lawliet returned, almost boredly. “I think I will be able to provide you with proof of that, after I directly confront the culprit.”

“A…direct confrontation?”

“At any rate, I would like to set up the investigation headquarters in Japan.”

And so, it had been done – albeit reluctantly, under the supervision of Quillsh, who was to be stationed firmly in Japan to supervise the creation of a task force by the NPA.

Lawliet had delayed the aforementioned confrontation for as long as he could, gathering as much information as he could –

But, eventually, he couldn’t plan for it any longer, without actual execution.

_It's time to act._

 

* * *

 

 

He has a plan.

Lawliet, the morning after he stays awake watching the rain on his window, after waiting for one week, asks that the Japan’s National Police Agency allow a stand-in to speak for him on television. He requests that the person posing as him – as L Lawliet – is someone with a middle name beginning with L, and that this person would have otherwise been sentenced to death sometime within the next day or two.  Reluctantly and suspiciously, and again under the supervision of Quillsh, the members of the NPA oblige and arrange for a criminal fitting the given description to appear on television.

Lawliet frowns as he waits for the broadcast to start; he feels his curiosity piqued by the promise of what he predicts, and he bites his thumb, carefully not to tear into his skin.  On one part of his computer screen, he watches as his stand-in – a man named Lind L. Tailor – sits a plain desk, a nametag displaying his full title.  A small smile tugs at Lawliet’s lips, and intrigue replaces the course tiredness of the blood and marrow in his bones.  On the other part of the screen, he watches the room full of the NPA officers, staring at the computer Quillsh is currently holding as a direct route of communication between the two parties.

He has a plan, one that could’ve only arisen from the brain of someone simultaneously intrigued and unafraid of the threat of death – knowing that the possibility of him dying at the hand of Kira within the next few moments would be unlikely, but possible.  Never before had he risked his life for a case; he grimly grits his teeth when he realizes that he had never risked his life in any capacity, either for love or for death, but it’s an infinitesimal detail wholly unrelated to the case.  He brushes such thoughts away by visualizing the cleaning of a slate.

He knows he cannot and will not die.

He is immortal, for better or worse.

And so he whispers something quietly to the NPA, beckoning to them to cue Lind L. Tailor to begin speaking as he watches with calculating, cold eyes.

“Criminals around the world are being murdered by a serial killer. I consider this crime to be the most atrocious act of murder in history. I will not rest until the person or persons responsible are brought to justice. Kira, I will hunt you down. I will find you,” Lind L. Tailor announces to the camera, unknowingly reading a prompt from behind the camera, one that Lawliet himself had written the night before. 

Lawliet frowns, twisting his fingers around his wrist. The man on the screen pauses for the briefest of moments, and then continues, his voice unwavering:

“Kira, I've got a pretty good idea what your motivation might be, and I can guess what you hope to achieve. However, what you're doing right now is _evil_.”

The seconds twist by, each one taking a new shape and falling to the ground almost like snowflakes.  Inexplicably, Lawliet thinks of Beyond Birthday, his old demon – he thinks of burnt skin, of the challenge of crimson eyes peering into his soul, and he almost shivers, except that he shakes his head, disgusted, and doesn’t allow himself to focus on anything except the explicit details of the moment.

_Focus, Lawliet._

Even with all his aliases, he still thinks of himself as _Lawliet_.

Six hundred years provides a decent amount of time for practicing the kinds of thoughts he allows to sweep into his brain.

But surely enough, within moments – and it’s almost surreal, when it happens – Lind L. Tailor collapses.

Lawliet hums slightly, his throat aching when, for a moment, underneath the shadow of dark hair, he pictures that it’s Beyond, dying in front of him by the same hand.  He watches Lind L. Tailor grab at his own throat, as though the struggle for air is ripping a clean seam through the front of his abdominal cavity,

“Kira,” Lawliet whispers to himself, somewhat awed, holding one finger over the microphone on the computer for a moment, feeling himself simultaneously isolated by and thrust into the moment. He takes a moment to gather himself – breathes deeply – and then –

“Ahhhh. I had to test this, just in case, but I… I never thought it would actually happen. Kira...it seems you can kill people without having to be there in person. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't just witnessed it.”  He pauses, almost capable of visualizing the words carrying through the streets.  Kira… _Kira_.

“Listen to me, Kira. If you did, indeed, kill Lind L. Tailor, the man who you just saw die on television, I should tell you that he was an inmate whose execution was scheduled for today. That...was not me.”

The walls around him are wholly unresponsive to his nearly bored tone of voice, the novelty of his words lost in the quiet solitude of his space.  “The police arrested him in absolute secrecy, so you wouldn't have heard of him on TV or through the internet. It appears not even you have access to information about these types of criminals….”

He pauses, imagining the blood exploding from his arms and wrists, unable to reach his heart.

“But I assure you, L is real. I do exist. Now – try to kill me!”

Watching the corner of his screen, Lawliet sees some members of the NPA jump to their feet, scrambling as they listen to the broadcast, some shouting into their headsets, but he doesn’t hear them.

“What’s wrong?” Lawliet asks after a few moments, feeling them add to the collective weight of his existence, the seconds almost taunting him in the subtlest of ways.  “Go ahead. Come on, right now – kill me.”

Something quiet whispers in his conscience, echoes in the quietest places –

_Please._

He thinks of burnt crimson eyes, falling away, laughing with secrets – parallel secrets to every moment falling between their times and spaces in the present –

“Can’t you _do_ it?”

Indeed, those moments pass, as reluctantly as any others.

Perhaps predictably, Lawliet’s fundamental existence remains unchanged.

There have been six hundred years of seconds precisely the same as these ones, carbon copies shading his life and his lies with all the same weight.

“Well, Kira,” he says tentatively, almost teasingly –

“It seems you can’t kill me after all.”

So it appears his hypothesis had been correct.

No death, today, at least, for Lawliet.

There’s only silence curling around himself and around everyone else, and he watches as the NPA freezes with anticipation, and the body of Lind L. Tailor is removed from the stage.

“So, there are some people you can’t kill. You’ve given me a useful hint,” Lawliet muses to the microphone, imagining himself in Kira’s shoes. “A dealer to a saver. I'll tell you something that I think you'll find interesting. Although this was announced as a worldwide broadcast, the truth is, we are only broadcasting in the Kanto region of Japan. I had planned to broadcast this message around the world until we found you, but it looks like that won't be necessary. I know now where you are.”

He continues, ambivalent to the silence and it, in turn, ambivalent to him:

“I’ve conducted some analysis.  The police treated your first killing as an unrelated incident, but in actuality, the first of your victims was a suspect in Sinjuku. Of all the criminals that recently died of heart attacks, this one's crime was, by far, the least serious. Furthermore, his crime was only ever reported inside Japan.  I used that information to deduce this much. You are in Japan, and your first victim was little more than an experiment, which means you haven't been killing for very long.”

Such an explanation is beneficial not only for Kira’s sake, but also for the sake of the NPA as a whole, as the organization is searching to find if it can trust the extent of his knowledge. It has no way of supposing, Lawliet considers, that he has been alive for six hundred years, with a wealth of information pooling at his fingertips and in every corner of his brain - he's little more than a legend to them. This should demonstrate the serious extent to which he has adopted the profession of solving puzzles, he supposes.

_Quillsh might remark that I am being dramatic._

“We decided to broadcast in Kanto first because of its large population, and, luckily, we found you,” Lawliet continues, his voice dry, almost cryptic, even though the nature of the conversation deals with the reveal of secrets rather than their perpetuated obscurity. “To be completely honest with you, I never expected it would go this well. But it won't be too long now, before I'll be able to sentence you to death.  Naturally, I am very interested to know how you are able to commit these murders without being present...but I don't mind waiting a little bit longer.

He pauses and closes his eyes. “You can answer all of my questions when I catch you...”

_For, make no mistake, I will catch you._

And, whispered –

“Let us meet again, soon… _Kira_.”

The word leaves a strange taste on his lips, and it feels almost like a kiss.

He finds it perpetually interesting that he spends so much of his time residing close to death, but manages to perpetually escape its grasps.  He is also objectively fascinated by his own intrigue with the case, given that he has handled so many obscure and seemingly unsolvable questions – but this one, this one feels different.  Perhaps it has something to do with the complete presence of both major questions he generally asked, both who was engaging themselves in the situation, and how?

Finished in the immediate moment with speaking, Lawliet suddenly reaches out and punches the power button of his computer monitor, watching as both the screen of Lind L. Tailor’s empty seat and the NPA fade away into blurred, jagged nothingness.  Although he would never confess to being even somewhat rattled, he feels his hands shake, perhaps inexplicably.  He’s detached from his own physical reaction, and it’s as though he is a mere observer to everything in the room, including his own existence.

“Kira…” he hears himself mutter. “I will find you, wherever you are. I know you’re there.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kira is real.

He’s in Japan, and he can kill someone without being immediately present.

Lawliet, murmuring quietly to Quillsh on the phone not too long afterward, instructs him to inform the NPA that they should examine where and when the details of the criminals’ arrests have been broadcasted.

_The clues lie in the details._

Six hundred years has taught him this much, at least.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet keeps the case a secret, even from his companions at Wammy’s House, at least in the immediate moments. He’s a master of secrets and lies, so keeping his mouth shut doesn’t prove a difficult prospect.

He makes an ice cream sundae for dinner, as Quillsh is remaining in Japan as the active symbolic tie between Lawliet himself and the NPA and is subsequently rendered incapable of playing chef. Disinterested, he drizzles chocolate syrup onto uneven lumps of ice cream, haphazardly letting some drip down the sides of the bowl and quietly crash onto the surface of the countertop where he eats.  The kitchen is full of soft darkness, and Lawliet doesn’t bother flipping on the light switch; instead, he lets the moon filter in through the windows and glaze him in ambivalent silver.

The interesting thing about the moon, he supposes, that it has remained unchanged for six hundred years. The sky is beautiful for its untouchable quality; it’s something he will never be able to reach, even though he continues to grasp every night simply by casting his gaze upwards to the stars.  The stars and the moon care nothing for the deaths of the earth.

“ _Lawliet_.”

His eyes flick up from the bowl of ice cream to catch a glimpse of Mihael drifting into the room, his bright yellow hair radiant in the dimness of the space. 

“Is that your…dinner?”

“Ah…yes, indeed.  I require nothing further,” Lawliet replies smoothly, politely. “What brings you here?”

“Same as you.  Food.”

“Mmm.  I see. Where’s Mail?”

“Sleeping.”

Silence hangs between them, and Lawliet can’t help but notice, as always, when Mihael walks closer to search the cabinets for some sort of chocolate-flavored cereal, the grey hairs twisting at his temples, bending down into his sideburns, a sign of aging.  He raises his eyebrows and looks away, fighting the urge to allow himself to linger on the signs of age creeping onto his student’s skin.

Love….

What an _interesting,_ almost _poetic,_ way to kill someone.

The thought, unbidden, races to Lawliet’s mind, and he masks his disgust by stuffing his mouth with another bite of ice cream and twisting his face into something neutral.  It wasn’t characteristic of him to ignore possibilities of any sort, but he realizes that the path of Mihael’s life is one that he will not follow, within reason. It is a path that leads only to the prospect of being buried, or being burnt to ashes –

(Just as how Beyond was burnt alive, before he _even_ had the grace to die the _normal_ way -)

It’s unusual that such thoughts occupy Lawliet’s brain so heavily, and he attributes it to the reasonable conclusion that the case has compelled to question the very nature of social constructs that have shaped him in ways he hasn’t even dared to question.  Indeed, he regularly spends the majority of his time perfecting his skillsets and reading all sorts of literature; thoughts about his One – or lack thereof – rarely cross his mind at all.  He supposes that this case, the Kira case, is causing his thoughts to buzz and hum in frantically undulating patterns like a group of panicking bees, even if none of his musings are visible externally.

He forces himself to think of nothing other than his ice cream.

“No cereal,” Mihael mutters under his breath. “Who doesn’t keep goddamned cereal in the – oh, whatever.  Just get some tomorrow…”  He slams a cabinet door shut and starts to exit the kitchen without saying another word to Lawliet, who simply observes.

After he’s already gone, Lawliet whispers mildly:

“ _Well_.  Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

 

He thinks about the fact that Beyond Birthday had adopted Lawliet’s habit of biting a thumbnail while lost in thought.

He had also adapted a certain similar, concurrent solidarity in his choice of nutritional habits.  He seemed to prefer a homogenous diet of solely jam, just as Lawliet seemed to prefer solely sweets. 

He had a most peculiar way of laughing, like he was filled with secrets that bubbled out from the inside to the external when he opened his mouth.  He was too many mirrors, too much smoke, all hands and all fight and no restraint.

And so, sometimes, when Lawliet sleeps, he still sees Beyond next to him, standing by him in the kitchen and watching the nighttime sky.

“You should go to the moon one day,” Beyond would mutter cryptically to Lawliet.  “I think you’ll find something important there, eh.”

When it was dark, Lawliet could pretend that his irises weren’t bright red, like blood.  He knew that as time continued – and indeed, time did continue – every day, Beyond resembled him more and more closely, all except for those bright eyes.

Lawliet had never suspected, back then, that he’d be searching the world for his shadow, for that shadow with crimson eyes, one day –

And, now, again, he’s searching the world for…

What exactly is it, he seeks?

_(A shadow of a different sort, perhaps?)_

 

* * *

 

 

_“Kira… I will find you, wherever you are. I know you’re there.”_


	4. Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawliet eventually falls asleep, curled on the floor, unwillingly submitting to the grip of exhaustion. Just before he drifts into unconsciousness, he reaches to berate himself for being weak and submitting to rest, but he is silently listless with uneasiness and cannot help but fall.
> 
> When he wakes, a single verse from a translation of a bible he once read jumps to his mind, unbidden –
> 
> For the commandment is a lamp and the law is a light, and reproof is the way of life and instruction.
> 
> There is an absence, of something soft – it’s missing on his lips, and it gently kisses his eyelids awake, an absence into which he leans and twists like he’s standing out in the rain someplace cold but he wants to feel an embrace.

_There will be time, there will be time  
_ _To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
_ _There will be time to murder and create,  
_ _And time for all the works and days of hands  
_ _That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
_ _Time for you and time for me,  
_ _And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
_ _And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
_ _Before the taking of a  
_ _toast and tea._

 

 

Perhaps one of the most unsettling parts of staying alive for six hundred years was the evolution in the modes of communication, Lawliet supposes grimly.  The world was never quiet these days, even if he’s unsure that the whispers he hears floating to his brain are simply internal or external.  Not that it would make much of a difference, either way, if what he heard was truly extant at all.

He’s crouched on the floor, his arms bent and folding over his legs as he curls himself into a ball, resting his head on his own shoulder.  The only light glowing in the room flickers from his computer monitor, which is currently a blank white free-form lantern casting strange shadows across the walls. Indeed, there is no mistaking that the very presence of screens on technology is a symbol for communicative literacy these days; Lawliet finds the task of constantly being connected rather distracting. Cell phone signals and computer messages seem to reside not only in his palm when they ring, but also reverberate into his mind, flooding him with signals and waves, so all he can bring himself to do is simply stare down the computer in front of him, using one part of his brain to wait for answers and using another part to, in fact, seek the very answers in question.

When he was eighteen for the first year, people sent letters to one another, as they did for quite a long while. It seems almost no one sends letters these days; so much communication is based heavily on electronic visuals, accompanied by auditory input.  Biting his thumb, he leans forward into his thoughts, and wonders…

_The connectivity...._

Perhaps, Lawliet supposes, the prevalence of such phenomena is one of the dominant aspects potentially driving Kira. It’s not unreasonable to suspect that Kira is driven by the admiration of potential followers; the heart attacks had increased significantly once messages and boards devoted to the appreciation of Kira gained momentum.  He had contacted those employed under his watch to instruct that they monitor potential information online for any clues that might assist the investigation, but – as he suspected all along – no such visible or obvious hints appeared.

On the surface, it’s easy to conceal veritable thoughts and sentiments.  Lawliet is certain of this much.  In public, all humans present a certain front: oftentimes, they will respond to difficult moral questions with conventionally blasé answers, anticipating the assurance that in turn for their reasonable articulations they will not encounter aggressive backlash. Naturally, those in public positions are entirely inclined to say, in response to news about Kira, that killing criminals in any circumstances is wrong.  But online, on the other hand… It is overwhelmingly clear to Lawliet and the task force that statistics about crime rates stumbling and falling suggest to some that Kira is performing acts of veritable social vengeance intending to promote a singular message.

Lawliet bites his thumbnail and closes his eyes, trying to melt into the mind of a being he can’t fathom concretely conceptualizing.

Certainly, in Japan there has always been a certain degree of resistence to the idea of keeping some criminals alive, refraining from adorning them with the aging catalyst, while others are sentenced to die.  The problem lies not necessarily with the principle of giving the catalyst, naturally, but rather with the entire institution that some receive severe, irrevocable punishment whereas others will, more likely than not, eventually be left to roam the streets when their sentences of however many years have been fulfilled, potentially still being redeemed enough to find their Ones. Perhaps this Kira is attempting to craft a uniform system; or perhaps he simply resents the existence of crime in society in any capacity.

Perhaps his conscience has reached godlike proportions, and he feels that he must connect himself to the world in this way – by passing judgment on those who have already been judged, preventing them from finding their Ones. Lawliet leaves a vaguely disgusted noise in the back of his throat, repulsed by the childish philosophy, and simultaneously certain that he is not incorrect to assume that Kira is, in fact, as immature as he suspects.

Even so, Lawliet wonders if a key to this case lies in the same train of thought he had entertained only moments earlier.

_How did Kira gain access to the existence of these criminals?  Was it possible he was omniscient, and knew all of their names without needing to conduct any sort of research?_

But, certainly, such a notion was impossible; Kira had to be human.  He must have had uncovered the knowledge of criminals through some sort of medium, surely.

His eyes open to greet the glowing paleness of his computer screen, when the realization crashes into his mind. Perhaps Kira gains knowledge about these criminals through listening to broadcasts; if not, he may work at a prison, and have access to high information clearances to procure such information.

_But, then again…_

There is a distinct possibility that Kira is a student, not a worker, given that – according to some rudimentary analysis conducted by the NPA – all of the heart attacks have taken place between afternoon and night hours, the same hours during which a student would be able to find time to dedicate to conducting work outside of school. Lawliet bites the inside of his mouth, knowing with a certain degree of certainty that it’s almost certain Kira is relatively young; only someone young, and perhaps privileged, would seek to execute plans pertaining to such childish ideals of justice - playing a godlike role, saying when people could live long enough to fall in love...

Lawliet intends to ask the NPA to continue examining the precise times of death of each criminal, with the hopes of either confirming or disproving such a theory.

He stumbles cynically over the idea of wondering just how young, perhaps, Kira might actually be.  He might have not yet reached the age of eighteen, which would be rather dangerous: someone so young had no business involving himself with questions of existentialism and what sorts of punishment were warranted for criminals who had already been sentenced for their crimes.   If he was in school, there was a good chance he was no older than eighteen; most people, having reached eighteen, didn’t return to grade school – they preferred to progress to higher education, or join the work force, at least in these times.  Lawliet wonders, absentmindedly, if this suggests Kira is unmatched, acting without the partnership of his One.

_If he is as young as his actions of “justice” seemed to suggest, then it is likely certain that he is still alone._

Considering the odds, Lawliet thinks contemptuously, six hundred years weighed against a mere eighteen could never possibly constitute a battle worth anything other than a week’s more of investigating.  It was likely that this Kira would slip up, somewhere, and tumble straight into the clutches of Lawliet’s investigation, giving himself away and ending the fight. 

And then, of course, there would be more cases. Lawliet is almost detached from himself, as he prefers to absorb the information he needs to solve the case, letting it become his dominant preoccupation, not allowing himself to consider grander questions about the implications of Beyond’s death, or the fact he is still entirely youthful in all capacities except for years, and that he has no maps written on his skin, only on his brain.

_This is a distraction.  No, this is an occupation.  No…this is a distraction._

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples. 

He searches for any signs that might alert him that the process of aging has begun, that something has shifted, even though he never touches anyone's skin.  He combs his eyes over every inch of his frame for physical changes, but nothing ever shifts; he scans adeptly and carefully, and the total monotonous uniformity of his appearance is simultaneously disinteresting, unsettling. His gaze hardens as he meets the glare of his own dark eyes in the mirror, pretending he can see the dust gathering like shimmers across the expanse of his skin and fingernails and hair, but he knows that all of this – every bit of the world he has crafted for himself – can be attributed to tricks of the consciousness.

He leads himself into believing there is still a point to his existence. He’s strong-willed and clever enough to do so, unlike others of his age, those who often resort to committing suicide, believing entirely that they were simply never fated to meet their Ones, and therefore have lost purpose somewhere in the folds of time. Or, rather, never had the blessing of finding it to begin with.  Something of the sort. They watch themselves disintegrate without physically falling apart at all.

But Lawliet’s purpose is to solve puzzles; he knows this much to be true.  He knows that without his existence, countless mysteries would’ve gone unsolved, and it’s a blessing from fate – he laughs shortly, scoffing – that one of the oldest human beings continuing to exist is someone so stubborn, so determined to pursue questions about the mechanisms and methods by which humans pervert their own lives.

Even so, he is weary.  He’s still human – he’s neither a portrait on the wall, nor a harbinger of death.  He simply…is. He is the incarnation of a mechanism that allows the world to keep spinning, but such selflessness isn’t necessarily voluntary. It’s circumstantial.

His curiosity often leads him to wonder what it would be like, to die.

 

* * *

 

 

The afternoon after the next, Lawliet listens to the NPA’s daily debriefing at the task force headquarters, courtesy of Quillsh’s laptop. He’s sitting on the floor, watching the meeting unfold, unconsciously using one of his thumbs to draw circles on his other hand, part of him engaged while another part is drifting someplace inexplicable and blank.

“This week, there were an additional twenty-one people who called in, claiming to be Kira,” one man states, his tone monotonous and dry, perhaps from fatigue.  “So, we, uh…followed standard procedure, and created individual files for all twenty-one of them.”  He looks up from his paper and waits for a response.

“Hmm.”  Soichiro Yagami cuts in, indicating his absorption of the information, and Lawliet leans forward slightly.  Soichiro, as the chief of the department, commands attention with his every word. If there was one word to describe him, in Lawliet’s eyes, it would be responsible.  It’s evident that he has a clear sense of justice, even from rudimentary observation.

Soichiro is aging, Lawliet also notes. His hair is greying, and there are wrinkles lining his face, but he’s not close to passing away. He’s merely continuing to change, presumably at a healthy rate; he’s certainly aged a few years since Lawliet last saw him, regarding some vaguely unimportant case for which they floated in similar circles.  Lawliet’s mind quickly jumps to the idea of his family – wonders if his wife is aging, too, as she would likely be, wonders if they have built a family with children, if they’re still growing.  Wonders what it’s like for Soichiro to know, upon returning home, that he’s living an unquestionably honorable, purposeful life.  Wonders if Soichiro is glad and content to live the way he does. Such questions, indisputably, contribute to the formation of one’s character, and so naturally he cannot help but wonder.

These sorts of thoughts necessitate biting his thumb, which he does almost unconsciously as he continues to listen, peering into the realm of the NPA and hovering someplace between the virtual and the reality.

“Alright.  Onto the victim reports,” Soichiro says, clasping his hands together and leaning his forehead against them, seemingly fatigued by the series of events.

Another man stands to deliver the news. “Upon further investigation,” he says, “we have confirmed that information about the victims was publicly available in Japan immediately prior to their deaths.”  It sounds almost as though he’s gritting his teeth, unsettled by the news.

_Ah.  I see..._

Lawliet smiles a bit, his theory confirmed. After the last meeting, he had suggested that the task force execute some research on the publicity of the victims’ arrests.

“Also,” the man continues, continuing to sound vaguely bitter, “concerning L’s request that we investigate the time of death for each victim, we found that –as noted prior to this meeting – all of them occurred between the hours of four in the afternoon and two in the morning and weekdays, with the times ranging more widely on weekends.  This trend has continued with the new series of murders.”

Lawliet pauses for a moment.  “That information is extremely valuble,” he says cryptically.   “As I said before, albeit briefly, it suggests that, given the times of death, our suspect could very well be a student.”

He had mentioned only once in passing prior to their discussion today that they should keep their minds open to the idea that Kira could be a student; in truth, he had suspected such a turn of events long before sharing the information.  Upon hearing this information stated for a second time, this time with even more certainty, the room falls apart to mutters, but the reaction that stands out the most strongly to Lawliet is Soichiro’s.  The chief’s eyes widen visibly, even through the lens of the laptop’s camera, and his spine seems to stiffen as he sits up straight, leaning towards the laptop.

_Is there a student in his family?_

“Given that Kira is only killing criminals,” Lawliet continues, commanding the full attention of the room, “it is safe to assume that he is driven by a very idealistic notion of justice.  It’s also highly possible that he aspires to become some sort of godlike figure.  …We are dealing with an individual who has a very childish concept of right and wrong.”

Again, the room fills with whispers. None of the workers know with certainty that Lawliet has been alive for longer than likely all of them, but it’s indubitable that they must notice the space hovering between them: the jumps in the considerations he makes, versus the conclusions they might reach on their own. They are separated by a space of impassable isolation fostered by the presence of the societal norms that allows Lawliet to reach conclusions in the first place.

He pauses for a moment before plowing forward.

“Of course, this is mere speculation at this point. But still, I recommend you reexamine any assumptions you’ve made as far as to whether or not our suspect could be a student.  We must consider every possibility.  I believe that is the fastest way to finding and arresting Kira.”

Unbeknownst to the room full of police, Lawliet fixates his gaze on Soichiro, his mind racing to articulate the conclusions that threaten to spill from his lips.  “Now, please,” he murmurs, his voice almost a purr, “continue with your report.”

“Hmm.  Alright,” replies Soichiro.  “Does…anyone else have something they would like to add?”  He pushes his glasses further up onto his nose, gazing out at the room full of people who have turned from the laptop to stare back at him. A small smile touches Lawliet’s lips.

“I, ah… Yes, sir!” calls one man from the back. When he stands, Lawliet can see he still looks young – presumably unmatched, similarly to about half of the crowd within the space. 

“What is it, Matsuda?” Soichiro murmurs, and Lawliet remembers. Touta Matsuda is his name, if he remembers correctly from reading the list of members working on the case – one of the newer members of the NPA,

“Ah, well…”  Matsuda clear his throat.  “Well, I’m not saying this to support Kira, or to condone the murders, but…in the last few days, throughout the world, especially here in Japan, we’ve observed a dramatic decrease in the amount of violent crimes committed.”

Whispers fill the room, and Lawliet freezes.

“There has also been some consideration about the idea of…potentially…changing how the aging catalyst is administered in the prison system,” Matsuda adds quietly.  “If it should be given to everyone, or to no one.  You know.  Since there’s always been that debate.  Um…”

“Well, I suppose it makes sense.  We’ve suspected something like that would happen,” Soichiro cuts in, before Matsuda can continue to stumble.  “Thank you.  That about sums up our report for today…”

Lawliet narrows his eyes at the screen as the conversation continues, and buzzing fills the room yet again. It’s certainly natural that Matsuda noticed the statistics; even the media was beginning to hum with the possibility that perhaps Kira was, in fact, accomplishing what he set out to do – redefining the consequences for violent behaviors, subsequently taking on a concrete form of karma.

“We are one step closer to finding Kira,” Lawliet murmurs, almost forgetting that his voice is audible through the microphone, and he quickly adds, “Thank you, everyone; before I go, I’m afraid I have one additional request to make.  This is directed at the teams investigating the victims, television, and Internet. I would like you go to back and take a closer look at the exact way the victims’ identities were made public. Be as thorough as possible. In particular, I want to know if photos of the victims were made available to the public, in Japan. I’ll leave it to you.”

Abruptly, he sighs and shuts the power to the computer off – and he’s left in total darkness that spills across his lap and back and spine and neck.  He’s unsure if it reassures him, or fills him with something that could be interpreted by some as loneliness.  No matter that he lives in an enormous mansion filled with people.

 

* * *

 

 

Beyond Birthday had told Mihael that he was able to see when people were going to die, and then poked Mihael in the stomach.

Mihael, still relatively young at the time, had come running to Lawliet, his eyes brimming with tears of confusion that would’ve most certainly blurred his vision as he sprinted through the hallways. Lawliet leaned down and listened carefully as Mihael whispered in his ear what happened, that Beyond had actually said he knew exactly when people were going to die, and that it was his job to make sure everyone left at the right time.

Lawliet’s gaze had hardened as he stared at the wall, listening to everything Mihael said.  Without saying a single word in reply, except for calling for Quillsh to come retrieve Mihael, he stood and calmly walked to where he knew Beyond would be – hiding in his room, watching and waiting for Lawliet to inevitably find him.

“Nice to see you here,” he’d said at the sight of Lawliet’s flat expression.  “What brings you to this part of the house?  Do you come here often?”  He laughed, and in truth it sounded like death.

“Stop harassing everyone,” Lawliet said dully, ignoring the way chills ran down his spine at the sight of the ridiculous red contact lenses Beyond wore, and the way he slumped over with that implicitly menacing smirk as he stared at the world.  “I’ll make you leave.  I don’t care how many cases you help solve.”

“I think we both know you wouldn’t.”

“Ahh.  Well. Don’t tell them lies like that,” Lawliet replied smoothly in turn,  “like you told Mihael.  There’s simply no reason to imbue everyone with the dark imaginings of whatever it is that transpires in your mind.”

  
“It’s not a lie.  I just wanted to tell him a story.  I have to have something that sets me apart, after all,” Beyond said coolly, “and there are some things I know that you don’t.”

“Fine, then,” Lawliet snapped, “tell me, when am I going to die?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t tell you that. It’s against the rules!”

Beyond was smirking.

Lawliet pressed his lips into a thin line and, quite calm and composed, turned to leave the room, tipping his head to the side slightly so that his hair covered his eyes.  “I have no taste for you,” he said plainly, and, although he sensed somewhere in his mind he would like to say more, he left the sentence hanging in midair, leaving hastily without turning back.

The bitterness between them was something almost tangible, something like teeth ripping apart the ground under their feet, more or less resembling the crack of a coffee mug shattering as it split onto the ground. Beyond was the demon that haunted him and Lawliet refused to believe anything more or less of him; he couldn’t bring himself to believe that any trace of truth flooded anything Beyond said, and so he merely continued to go on about his usual business. He was working on a case regarding two young men who had gone missing only days before, something that demanded his attention – he required neither any distraction, nor any assistance, from Beyond.

And so when we went to leave, he ignored the small words he heard tapping his shoulder and teasingly running down his spine –

“I have to make sure they arrive on time. It’s my job.”

Lawliet was certain he’d imagined it.

Beyond had disappeared later that night.

(Almost as if taunting Lawliet, asserting that he would never be thrown out by someone else – he and he alone could determine when he came and went.  His disappearance was gossamer, something hanging like thinly ripped veils on the corners of all their consciences, and it troubled Lawliet deeply, to some extent.)

What’s more, he didn’t come back for quite some time, and when he did, he somehow looked exactly like Lawliet’s shadow, every bit of him ghostly like smoke, right down to his fingernails – him and with his laugh and eyes that looked like they belonged to some god of death, his body like a ghost.

 

* * *

 

 

If Lawliet holds his hands out, he can imagine time seeping through them, imbibing his fingers with seconds dripping into moments and comprising the building blocks that form his consciousness. He thinks, and therefore he is.

If he distracts himself, it’s easy enough to let the time flow past him, like he’s standing in the ocean and the waves break and swell around him.  He reads, he learns to play piano, he practices sewing, he crafts some pieces of artwork, he studies the legal practices of all different nations. 

Recent nights, he lies awake and thinks of Kira. It’s as though he wants to reach through the space between himself and this invisible entity, and shake him – tell him that there are so unfathomably many components that comprise the very phenomenon of the human mind, and that forgiveness and justice and redemption cannot be accomplished through death alone. 

_When we catch Kira, naturally, he’ll be sentenced to death._

Of course, it’s interesting in theory to consider that, on his watch, Lawliet has sentenced many criminals to death through due process of the law – a fact that sometimes weighs upon him, even though a more prevalent weight is the mere idea that in six hundred years, he has seen some of the darkest corners of the world.  Does this idea adorn him with a certain sort of parallel connection to Kira?

Is it that Kira, seemingly young and likewise inexperienced with the mechanisms of the world, coupled with some sort of weapon that enables him to exact childish justice upon the victims he’s deemed worthy – lives an existence in every way parallel and perpendicular to Lawliet’s own?

Lawliet, burdened with all the heaviness of sin breaking his spine and left with a perpetually bitter taste in his mouth…

The two of them, perhaps both without their Ones, using justice as a means to rationalize and mark their places in the world.

It’s inexplicable that he pays such careful attention to the nuances and symbolic power of this case in particular. But he had been quite so bored before it came along; it was only fitting that something of a challenge caught his attention.

And, after all, perhaps it would lead him to some of the mysteries connected to Beyond’s life and death, if he looked closely enough.

 

* * *

 

Lawliet eventually falls asleep, curled on the floor, unwillingly submitting to the grip of exhaustion. Just before he drifts into unconsciousness, he reaches to berate himself for being weak and submitting to rest, but he is silently listless with uneasiness and cannot help but fall.

When he wakes, a single verse from a translation of a bible he once read jumps to his mind, unbidden –

_For the commandment is a lamp and the law is a light, and reproof is the way of life and instruction._

There is an absence, of something soft – it’s missing on his lips, and it gently kisses his eyelids awake, an absence into which he leans and twists like he’s standing out in the rain someplace cold but he wants to feel an embrace.

 

* * *

 

Lawliet has developed a routine, now; he spends the majority of the day alone, like he’s made of the very stillness of his heart in his lungs while the rest of the world spins along, until he reaches out through the laptop to meet with the NPA and it’s like he’s a system of nerves reaching out to forge these connections between things he cannot see or hear or taste.

This day, he tunes in to the meeting to find something impassioned immediately from the start.

The screen on his computer is filled with the sound of Soichiro Yagami’s frustration.  “What?” he sputters at the two men standing in front of him. “I don’t believe this. Another twenty-three victims just yesterday?  Are these confirmed?”

“Y-yes,” stutters one of the men, demure.

“The day before, there were another twenty-three victims,” Soichiro says, his voice a low growl.  “He’s killing one off, every hour, on the hour.”

“Considering that this pattern has been going on for two week days, it does punch some holes in the theory that our suspect is a student,” someone mutters.

“Maybe not.  Anyone can skip two days of school,” another man counters from his seat.

Lawliet pauses, and then, sighing, jumps into the fray.  “You’re missing the point,” he says deliberately through the microphone.  “It does appear less likely now that Kira is a student, but that’s not the message that he’s sending by doing this.”

Matsuda, standing closest to the camera, audibly gasps, followed by the seemingly omnipresent murmurs that infiltrate the room and fill it with speculation.  “Ask yourselves – why every hour?  And why are all these victims in prisons, where they are sure to be discovered immediately? Why is it that the victims have they not received the aging catalyst?  I believe that Kira is telling us not only that he can kill from a distance, but that he can determine the time of death.”

More whispers.

“But…something’s not right,” Lawliet muses, articulating his thoughts neatly to the audience hanging onto his every word. “As soon as we began to suspect that Kira might be a student, the pacing of the killings changed, as if to contradict that theory.  Coincidence? …No.  Too convenient.  This can only mean that Kira has access to police information.”

He thinks of Soichiro, watching the screen that hid Lawliet’s identity, wondering… A night’s worth of speculations are culminating in these considerations, and he finds himself rapidly connecting circumstances, twisting his words to reflect the workings of his mind. “This is a direct challenge to me,” he says flatly, the realization dawning on him. 

Time reminds L, reminds _itself_ , that it has stopped.

 

* * *

 

 

Once alone, separated from the rest of the meeting and standing in the middle of his room, hands shoved into his pockets, Lawliet is surrounded by his thoughts.  It’s as though he’s engulfed by a crowd.

“So, Kira has found a way to obtain information from the task force headquarters,” he murmurs.  “This is one fact that cannot be ignored.  But what does he get out of all this?  What is he hoping to achieve…in the end?”

Does his plan revolve around societal themes about the likelihood of him reaching his One?  Or does he simply seek to eliminate all crime in Japan? What is he gaining from seeking to directly confront Lawliet himself?

This case is quite unlike any other he’s seen – the most peculiar since Beyond had haunted the Los Angeles area, back in the United States.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet never owned a watch.  He never wanted one; they seemed to mock him.

Even so, when he’s out late that night, watching the stars, he feels a mysterious weight pressing onto his wrist almost as though something were wrapped securely there, reminding him of the atypical nature of his own humanity.

He’d never had someone directly challenge him, like a proper obstacle.

Perhaps, he realizes, somewhere inside of him, he’s glad someone finally did it.

_Maybe it’ll be a challenge – at least for a bit._


	5. Among Some Talk of You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s reaching towards something, and something is reaching for him. He’s certain of it. He convinces himself that this revolves around the novelty of these circumstances – he knows that if for no other reason, this case is valuable for its unparalleled stratagems. It’s testing him, and he’s glad to let the world stretch him to his limits.
> 
> Especially since he’s certain he will never break.
> 
> The reprieve from boredom is compelling enough, even if it’s at the expense of seeing the world rot - business as usual, only in an idiosyncratic format.

 

_I should have been a pair of ragged claws  
_ _Scuttling across the floors of silent seas  
_ _[…]  
_ _I grow old… I grow old...  
_ _[…]  
_ _I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  
_ _I do not think they will sing to me._

 

 

Lawliet never owned a watch, but he was always impeccably punctual.  As such, he is never late to observe the NPA’s debriefings; today is no exception.

The meeting begins calmly enough, but, predictably, perhaps given the volatile nature of the case in question, things escalate at a rapid rate.  (Lawliet could have predicted such a turn of events – there was at least an eighty-three percent chance that the interactions between coworkers would escalate into a verbal disagreement at some point in the foreseeable future.)

The proceedings unfold through the catalyst of Soichiro’s indignant voice, calling over the cacophony –

“What’s the meeting of this?”

Lawliet peers into the screen, unable to see anything other than three men standing in front of a desk, thus blocking his view of Soichiro’s expressions rather effectively.  The pixelated image is blurry, but coupled with the dialogue he strains to hear, it’s fairly easy to discern that the scene unfolding before him revolves around –

“With all due respect, Chief, we’re resigning.”

The room stirs, predictably, with hushed whispers that threaten to physically alter the appearance of the camera, they waver so heavily in their potency.  “We demand that you assign us to a different case,” one of the men at the front of the room says, his voice seeming to be reflective of someone gritting his teeth and speaking through a clenched jaw.  “Otherwise, you can have our badges right here and now.”

“But why?” demands Soichiro, and Lawliet’s gaze hardens. “You’re good cops!”

“Isn’t it clear?” replies the man at the front, lowering his head slightly.  “It’s because we value our lives, sir.  If what L says is true, Kira has some ESP-like power that somehow allows him to kill people indirectly, from anywhere.”

“If I were Kira, sir,” adds another one of the men standing in front of Soichiro, “I’d want to try to get rid of the people trying to catch me.”

“Let’s face it, he knows he’ll be sentenced to death if he’s caught,” chimes in yet another, his voice soft. 

“We all sat here and watched while L tried to pull that media stunt and challenged Kira to kill him,” says the first, his voice curling with the slightest tinge of disgust when he slipped over Lawliet’s pseudonym. “While it was all very impressive at the time, L never had to show his face or reveal his name, for that matter.”

Lawliet sighs a little, bringing one of his thumbs to his lips, casting his eyes around the rest of the room.  He rests on the sight of Matsuda, who looks utterly horrified at witnessing the proceedings, his mouth opened in a small circle of surprise.  Lawliet wonders if he would’ve ever felt the same, in the entire duration of his life – he cannot fathom what it was like to hold such little experience in the world that such events held shocking and horrifying twists for him.  He is wholly ambivalent, his intrigue piqued only by the implications of the future for the case.  Truthfully, the matter is of no veritable concern to him. 

“You remember L’s last request, that we take a closer look at the manner in how the victims’ identities were made public.” The first man seems to be tripping over his own words, in the most calmly collected way possible. “And specifically to determine whether or not photos of the victims were made available to the public prior to their deaths – well, it turns out, he was right.”  He slams his hands on the desk, leaning forwards, desperation cracking into every slight move of his body language.  Lawliet sees Soichiro lean backwards, and he instinctively feels the muscles in his back tighten.

“Every single one of those victims’ names and photos were broadcast to the Japanese public, and then they died,” snarls the man, visibly frustrated, and Lawliet frowns – unbeknownst to his audience. “Unlike someone we know, we’re out there investigating this case wearing police identification with our names and photos on them.  Anybody with a computer can find out who we are.  We don’t hide our faces, we’re out in the open!”

“Sir, the truth is, we could be killed by Kira at any time.”

“For these reasons, we refuse to continue working this case.”

They bow, deeply.  Lawliet feels something rise in his throat, but he’s unable to articulate as he watches the men turn to leave, murmuring “Excuse us, Chief,” as they lower their heads and twist their dry hands into their pockets. 

Soichiro stands abruptly.  “Hey.  Stop. All of you,” he calls, scanning the room, watching as the atmosphere thickens and they all cast the doors more glances.

But they leave, and Lawliet is left only to bite his lip, knowing precisely what the next logical move would be.

 

* * *

 

 

Quillsh’s voice weaves its way to Lawliet’s ears via the speaker.

“We brought the FBI to Japan four days ago. They’re fully operational. As requested, they’re now gathering intel on the police,” he says.

“And this is the complete list?” Lawliet asks smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Yes.”

The skin of his hands seems even thinner than the papers he now holds between his fingers, the entire documentation of the NPA, the paleness of both the parchment and his fingertips equally dull. Once, his skin had been bright, almost radiant – now, he’s faded, even if physical changes fail to shape him.

_Perception, more than concrete details._

“There are one-hundred and forty one people in the police force who have access to classified information regarding the investigation,” Lawliet whispers to himself.  “I’m quite sure that somewhere in the list of police officers and the people closest to them, we will find our suspect.”

The paper on the top of the stack is that which belongs to Soichiro Yagami.

Something intrinsically whispers to him, hums in his bones, that he is not wrong – he is never wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

_[It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples.]_

He started doing this as soon as they founded Wammy’s House, with the anticipation that, perhaps, with the arrival of new people in his life every day, he might find someone who catalyzed his inevitable demise. As with the rest of the world, no one could be matched to their Ones – or even have a designated One – until they were at least eighteen.  Given that less than a quarter of the students they welcomed to Wammy’s House were eighteen or older, the ritual seemed ridiculous at first, but he couldn’t help himself from checking. 

Call it morbid curiosity.

He had wondered, at first, if Aceline was his One. Her mental dexterity intrigued him, but he never felt himself drawn to her in the same way that Ones were said to feel pulled to each other.  He had watched her grow, saw the way she shook youthfulness from her shoulders and faded into the darkness of a world too complex and threatening for even her adroitness – he figured he could never fall in love with someone he saw lose their innocence in such a way.

He’d never even kissed anyone.  It wasn’t as though no one at all ever dated before finding their Ones – it was merely that the prospect never intrigued him. The closest thing he’d ever arrived at resembling an embrace of the sort had happened one night, late, when everyone else was asleep at Wammy’s House, and Beyond had stumbled into the kitchen, seeming to be quite drunk – intoxicated from what, Lawliet cared not to fathom.

He had approached Lawliet where he stood at the countertop – Lawliet, with his strawberry shortcake on a small plate in his hand – while he, tucking his hand at the cusp of his neck and shoulders, pushing his hair back from the top of his spine as the moonlight poured into the room, seemed to be muttering gibberish.

“What is it?” Lawliet murmured, fatigued of Beyond’s eccentricity. “Go to sleep.  You need to sleep.  It's necessary for your health.” 

“Lawliet,” Beyond had whispered abruptly, suddenly bridging the space behind them, and Lawliet’s eyes were filled with crimson – he couldn’t look away.  “Shh.” The murmurs floated around them, carefully tugging at the tips of their fingers, and Lawliet almost felt his pupils dilate with the adrenaline kick-starting its way into his veins.

Beyond leaned forward, and Lawliet froze, the seconds passing impossibly slowly as Beyond dipped his mouth to rest at the base of Lawliet’s ear, his breath softly twisting onto his skin as he, again, whispered the name.  Within an instant, Beyond pulled back, facing Lawliet eye-to-eye, their noses almost touching.

“Stop,” Lawliet said calmly, as he fought the shout building in his throat and, without blinking, unceremoniously pressed the paper plate full of cake onto Beyond’s chest – sending the clearest signal possible. “You’re acting irrationally. Go to bed.”

The night shimmered in through the windows. Lawliet felt his hands digging into the curves of his own palms as he struggled, fighting the urge to run far away, exchanging this desire for the ability to merely sidestep Beyond’s figure and walk out of the kitchen, simultaneously shaken and indignant. The air outside was still and compelled the hills around them to dance underneath the stars, taunting, questioning.

 Beyond had merely pulled away and laughed, surprised, in a bitter sort of way. “You’re too proud,” he had shot at Lawliet’s back as he walked away into the night, but Lawliet didn’t care, caring only enough to brush his hand dismissively in the air as his response to Beyond’s criticism.

Before he immediately disappeared from view, Lawliet turned around and called over his shoulder, his voice filled with disgust –

 _“And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light_.”

Beyond had laughed viciously at the spouting of a bible verse neither of them believed in, followed by the sound of glass breaking.

They were tumultuous. 

It wasn’t supposed to be that way – Beyond trying to cast Lawliet out of heaven, trying to overthrow the world Lawliet had built over the course of six-hundred years, through means of deceit and sexuality and sin.

And Beyond was never supposed to exist in the first place. Lucifer was only mythological, after all.

_(The bible never prepared him for this.)_

What’s more, the world had never prepared anyone for the sin that was Beyond Birthday.  He was what Lawliet sought to rinse and cleanse from his skin every time he touched water.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of a call incoming to Lawliet’s computer draws him from a dreamless, motionless reverie, and he paces to sit in front of the screen.  Within seconds, he finds Quillsh on the video feed, his companion shrouded by the brim of a large hat and the enormous mass of a trenchcoat that cast shadows all over his face and neck.  “What is it, Quillsh?” he murmurs, his voice even.

“Three more heart attack victims,” Quillsh replies quickly. “But the circumstances of their deaths are…different, from what we’ve seen thus far.”

“What do you mean, by…different?”

His mind races, calculating the unfathomable.

“I’m sending you a copy of a letter, as well as pictures taken at the scene,” is all Quillsh offers, his voice hushed on the microphone.

“Alright.”

Within seconds, Lawliet finds the files Quillsh mentioned, and he tilts his head to the side. 

The world seems to spin when he rests his gaze on the photograph of the pentagram on the wall, of the body that stumbled from its cell and collapsed on the floor… He hadn’t seen depictions so violent since, well –

Beyond –

“It sounds like this victim was afraid that Kira would find him,” he muses aloud softly.  “It’s believable that he…may have been genuinely afraid when he drew this…but we know Kira can control the time of death.”  He raises a hand to his chin, unwilling to eliminate any possibility. 

The floor is cold and indifferent as theories rush through his mind, so rapidly that they threaten to spill from every cell on his lips. “What if Kira can also control actions leading up to the victims’ deaths?” he asks himself. “In which case…”

Realization crashes over him like a wave breaking atop his head.

“Chief,” he says suddenly, and he peers into the camera, watching as Soichiro stands within moments, the rest of the task force also spinning around – potentially adorning themselves with whiplash – to stare into the laptop held in Quillsh’s hands.  “We cannot release the details of these deaths to the media. As far as they are concerned, these are just heart attacks.”

He pauses, staring intently at Soichiro as if the other man can somehow see him burning through the lens of the camera. “I have reason to believe that Kira was performing some kind of test, using these criminals. And if that’s indeed the case, we don’t need to give him the results, or leak this information to the public.”

“Right,” Soichiro concedes in response. “I understand.”

“So now he’s experimenting on his victims?” hisses one task force members under his breath, seemingly indignant.

“Horrible,” agrees another, blatant disgust itching into his voice.

“He’s playing with peoples’ lives, like all of this was just a game,” says Soichiro, curling his fist on top of his desk. Lawliet can see he’s visibly distressed. “It’s unforgivable.”

Lawliet continues to watch the meeting unfold, leaving his conclusions to wander in his mind privately.  If Kira is really using criminals as test subjects, he wonders, what is he trying to achieve?

He cannot help but believe the entire question behind this case lies in the unfolding of such a weighty question.

 

* * *

 

 

He cannot allow such big ideas to slip through his fingers.

If Kira used those criminals to conduct an experiment of some sort, he muses, it means he’s about to start something. This is the only logical conclusion. If Kira moves now, there’s a good chance that the FBI will notice someone acting suspiciously.

Even so, there’s a chance Kira retains a different goal altogether – one that connects the seemingly random pentagram and letter. It’s impossible to deny the cruel severity of the drawings etched in blood; regardless of the deeper message behind the communication, the situation itself remains vaguely barbaric.

Lawliet casts his eyes over the drawings Quillsh had sent him, until he sees –

_L, do you know –_

With a small gasp, he feels his heart and his lungs bending against the length of the floor, crashing into nothingness. Time seems to curve around the realization that someone, this Kira, is speaking to him as clearly as if he were wrapped around his chest and whispering into his ear.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s reaching towards something, and something is reaching for him.  He’s certain of it. He convinces himself that this revolves around the novelty of these circumstances – he knows that if for no other reason, this case is valuable for its unparalleled stratagems. It’s testing him, and he’s glad to let the world stretch him to his limits.

Especially since he’s certain he will never break.

The reprieve from boredom is compelling enough, even if it’s at the expense of seeing the world rot - business as usual.

 

* * *

 

 

“L,” says Quillsh, through the monitor, as time sluggishly churns through the waves of indiscriminate musings trapped in Lawliet’s room.

“Hmm?” 

Lawliet is facing the other direction, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, the fabric chafing his palms when he hears the voice calling him back into the realm of the monitor. 

“Another victim,” Quillsh says grimly, calmly. “This one left what appears to be a suicide note.”

 _Suicide note_.  Lawliet’s mind races involuntarily to Aceline, damned by her own hand, but he brusquely casts such associations to the side.  “Please.  Send it to me,” he says quietly, his voice near to a purr. 

Within seconds, the file appears from Quillsh; he opens it, his mind cleared of preconceived expectations, and even so is somewhat taken aback by what he finds. 

Gods of death, the note reads.  _Gods of death._

He thinks of Beyond –

Beyond Birthday, with a laugh that spoke from hell, and eyes that shimmered and shook with all the potency of fire. Gods of death, indeed. Lawliet shakes his head, every one of his nerves burning as he slowly connects…

L, do you know?  Gods of death.  _L, do you know gods of death?_

_Is Kira trying to tell us that gods of death exist?_

This potentially contradicts, or at the least unsettles, Lawliet’s perspective that the case is not contingent on supernatural elements.  Perhaps this is the intention – for the attention to be directed away from the potential humanity of Kira, and directed instead to the apparently nonsensical messages scrawled through the veils of death.

“Listen, Quillsh,” Lawliet murmurs. “Tell the police to monitor prison populations closely for the next few days.  Kira may use other suicide notes to communicate with us.”

 A pause. Then -

“Understood.”

 

* * *

 

 

Time passes, even if Lawliet barely feels it. He’s somewhat numb. He leaves the computer connected constantly, and loses himself in books, flooding his mind with words that hold no relevance and no permanence. 

The news reaches him that the FBI agents he sent have been murdered, every one of them.  The next time he hears from anyone on the NPA –

The sound of an incoming call rings shrilly throughout the room, and Lawliet glances upwards, his eyes dully searching the screen as he’s shrouded in darkness from his neck to his chest. “L.  I just got off the phone with the director of the FBI,” Soichiro says, replacing Quillsh’s familiar tones, his voice nearly a shout, “According to him, it seems that you arranged for the FBI to come to Japan and investigate everyone on the task force.”

“Yes.  That’s correct,” Lawliet replies boredly.

“So how do you explain this?  Are we suspects in our investigation?” Soichiro fires back, unmasked frustration creeping into his words.

“I felt that it was necessary to uncover Kira’s identity.”

“I cannot accept that!  I find it unbelievable that you would spy on us.  The very people working with you on this case!”

Through the rest of the feed, Lawliet can pick out a few distinct murmurs –

“Can you believe that?  I knew we couldn’t trust that guy.”

“Kira killed those FBI agents, didn’t he?”

“It’s obvious he’ll kill anyone who gets in this way, whether they’re criminals or not.”

“So much for his sense of justice. He’s a murderer.”

Lawliet is left with thoughts of the FBI agents curling into his consciousness.  Things seem to be slipping into uneven lines right before his very understanding; he cannot help but suspect, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his opponent is unparalleled.

He wonders, if he had ever been intended to find his One – if they would be quite as bright.

If they could help him work through these things baiting at his conscience, if they could help him sort through this case.

 

* * *

 

 

His next message is a simple one, from Quillsh.

It’s another suicide note.

Written at the top –

“ _love apples_.”

It completes the message.

_L, do you know?  Gods of death love apples._

He fights the urge to punch the ground, frustration entwining with his very sense of being, wanting to feel blood pooling at his knuckles from the sheer illogicality of the fundamental situation itself.

_Damn you, Kira._

 

* * *

 

Wammy’s House has been quiet, particularly in recent years. Mihael and Mail, along with Nate, are some of the only ones left.  Mihael and Mail live in their quiet paradise, residing on the fourth floor, claiming it entirely as their own, reluctant for whatever reason to leave their past comprised of old clock towers and stained glass behind.  Meanwhile, Nate locks himself in his room, building heaven only knows what sorts of mechanisms – towers and castles comprised of dominoes and train sets, entire cities built on the premise of imaginative fiction. Everyone else is younger, still growing.

There’s Gaetane, who’s sixteen and spends time helping Nate play cards and battle with toy robots.  There’s also Teagan, who spends his days reading and crafting literary analysis – he also sometimes competes against Mail, when they play video games. Cadence is there, too, living true to her name by incorporating her musical genius into her every touch and word. Her existence itself is musical.

Lawliet isolates himself from all of them until he becomes something of a legend, even within the mansion itself. He’s the incarnate form of evanescent bells humming out across the world – the echoes of which are visible enough to observers, while the origin remains aloft and solitary.

Nighttime cups Wammy’s House into its palm like a shovel built from cells and blood, meant to sift through its own treasures.

Lawliet feels closest to the rest of the world when the sky is dark.  During the daytime, the light is harsh and unforgiving, keen on showing him precisely what he’s missing; but during the night, everything is softened and nuanced such that he can blend into the world, quiet and still like a bird with jet black wings, well-suited to scouring the expanses of the world accessible to him but not when he’s clearly visible.

On this night – when he’s caught in the balance between what he knows and what he seeks to know – he’s unsettled by the prominence of one particular verse, the origins of which are unbeknownst to him, lingering in his mind.

_And the light shines in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not._

His isolation undoubtedly adorns him with a unique worldview, but he cannot help as though some critical facet of comprehension is missing.  It’s as though something is lingering at the edges of his awareness, an iconic sole clue that may lead to him to conclusions about the case. 

He’ll keep reaching, and find the light somehow.


	6. Sea-Girls Wreathed With Red and Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems strange to him that not long ago, he was standing amid the teeth of a graveyard, his soul bleeding into the ground. His skin is the same marble, his hair is the same shade of raven dark-blue, his fingers carefully wrapping around his wrists as he gazes out the window. As far as his inclination to solve puzzles, nothing could steer him away from solving this case; it’s not only a remedy for listlessness, it’s a purpose he is absolutely driven to uncover.
> 
> “Kira,” he whispers to his own reflection. “It seems we are getting closer to each other with every one of our steps.”

 

_Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,  
_ _I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;  
_ _I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,  
_ _And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,  
_ _And in short, I was afraid._

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples. 

This night is like any other.  He doesn’t sleep in the bedroom designated for him by Quillsh, on the third floor of the mansion – the room is untouched, and he imagines the wispy, gossamer curtains, more for show than practicality, touched by the soft breath of air sweeping in through the windows, the moonlight glowing and illuminating the bed.  There’s something unsettling about the place, and he avoids it, particularly at night.

And so, instead, Lawliet perpetually falls asleep on the floor of his office, typically when he can escape sleep no longer; he tumbles into unconsciousness gracefully, with all the shouting quiet of his brain slipping to numbness. 

This night is like any other.

 

* * *

 

 

When he sleeps, he dreams that Beyond is creeping along his spine with spindly fingers. 

Within his dream, he sits up, and faces the window to see Beyond hovering in the middle of the floor.

Although he knows it’s nothing other than a nightmare he would do well to shed, in some conscious part of his mind, he cannot bring himself to stir from the reverie.  He sees himself, sees the two of them, drifting in the room that somehow shakes in and out of reality, finding at times that when he blinks he sees the walls are thin and grey and at other times, he’s nowhere other than his present location, shrouded in the dark that threatens to overwhelm and to secure him.

“Lawliet,” Beyond whispers, although something about his tone designates that he is, in fact, barely speaking to his audience in any capacity.  “Lawliet.”

“What are you doing here?” Lawliet asks dryly, for even within the dream he is conscious of the ridiculous nature of their conversation, as he scans Beyond from head to toe.  “You’re dead.”

He’s speaking to himself, just as surely as he is speaking to his companion.  His voice sounds strange even to his own ears, as it curls into the air like mist, appearing to be formidable on the surface alone and instead disintegrating into a whole lack of resolve by the time the words grace themselves to Beyond. He feels that he is not entirely human – that he would be better suited to be a crab, scuttling along the floor of the ocean, or the crash and swell of the sea onto the sand – perpetual and somehow entirely glossed over by curious eyes.

_(O God! can I not save_

_One from the pitiless wave?_

_Is all that we see or seem_

_But a dream within a dream?)_

“Would you like to go on a walk?” Beyond asks, his voice dancing with fire when he casts his eyes onto Lawliet, something tempestuous and oddly beguiling lacing his tone delicately.  “I could show you plenty of things.” 

He raises an eyebrow at Lawliet, and, inexplicably, raises a finger to his mouth.  It’s covered in what appears to be sawdust, which he licks off, all the while dazzling the darkness with an impish smile.

“I’m dreaming,” Lawliet says flatly, “and you are dead. I’m walking nowhere, and there is nothing to see.  Unless, of course, you feel compelled to reveal to me some degree of information that might assist with the Kira case.”

Even given the vibrancy of his lucidity, he feels trapped. His subconciousness is playing tricks on him – especially given the mental stimulation of the case that intrigues his brain into constantly actively working.  The mind-bending, cofounding – albeit likely short-lived – novelty of the circumstances through which he crafts his present is driving him to some sort of delusional, well-hidden insanity.

“You’re trying to talk yourself into rationality,” Beyond teases, analyzing the lack of expression on Lawliet’s face. “You’re trying to find the reason for seeing me here.”

“Ah.  Yes, I suppose so.”  There was no point in coating answers with sugar; the only taste of sweetness on his tongue he needed could be easily procured from desserts.  He valued succinctness, and still questioned the rationale behind letting this conversation continue.   He supposes he still has one question…

“Beyond.  Am I going to die?”

Asked by anyone else, the inquiry may have appeared to be self-indulgent, or dramatic.  On Lawliet’s mouth, however, the words fall into a jumbled heap, a genuine perplexity that seeks nothing other than a simple answer, even though he is fully aware, in reality, that rarely could ever quite be so simple, particularly when sought from none other than Beyond Birthday.

“If you can tell, that is,” he adds after a quick moment of silence, a slight scoff edging into his tone.  “You said you could.  Mmm…Even so…” The trailing off is the only continuation of the thought necessary.

“Shhh,” Beyond says quietly, almost immediately after Lawliet’s words hang between them, and something stirs in Lawliet’s stomach, compelling him to stare intently at his toes curling against the floor from underneath the ends of his baggy jeans.  “You know I can’t tell you.  I think we both know this is nothing more than a figment of your imagination. You never were one to be imaginative in an artistic sense, Lawliet.”

“This isn’t art.  Factually speaking, you are haunting me.”

“Mmm.  Perhaps. Even so,” Beyond says, using his voice to taunt Lawliet by mimicking his words and precise tone. Before Lawliet can return with some senseless retort about the deft uselessness of his acting skills, Beyond laughs, and leans forward.  He bridges the space between them so that they’re sitting directly in front of one other, like two sides of a mirror – heaven and hell, real and surreal. It would be a lie for Lawliet to confess he had never viewed them as being opposite sides of such polarities and dualities.  The fact had crossed his mind often enough that it had woven enough of a track in his subconsciousness that the physical manifestation of such an idea now presented itself right before his eyes, seeing and unseeing in every capacity.

Lawliet defiantly refuses to shift back from Beyond’s closeness, digging his fingers into the solidity of the floor and feeling his bones jolt with the rush of his own adrenaline.  He’s prepared to lunge out and fight at any second – he had spent a decent amount of time in the twentieth century learning about physical combat, in the case of anyone venturing to physically attack him.

“Perhaps I can tell you a secret or two. About Kira, you say? You want to know about Kira?” Beyond whispers, his red eyes lighting up with an unusual, and dangerous, fervor.

“That would be rather useful,” Lawliet murmurs evenly in turn.

“I can tell you something.  Only if you promise to keep it between us.”

“Ah.  It’s locked in my brain, alone.  Rest assured, I won’t rush along to the NPA the moment I wake.”

Mindless indulgences.  It’s all simply a ridiculous game of puzzles. Lawliet knows the world is nothing more – the physical concrete world is nothing other than things to be unraveled, and now even his subconscious is building similar comprehensions with every breath he sips.

Beyond smiles and leans forward, dark hair falling tantalizingly across the smooth pale of his forehead.  He swiftly, almost seductively, leans over – as if to whisper secrets between lovers – until his mouth is pressed closely to Lawliet’s cheek, and they’re both frozen.  The nighttime is perfectly still, and time is crashing onto their heads – Lawliet can feel it, in the way that the seconds fly by in fear just as much as they slow from the weight of their own terror. 

“If this is alright,” Beyond whispers, “I thought you’d be interested to know that I am Kira.”

Oh, of course. Naturally.

Lawliet’s gaze hardens, the words seeming like a slap to the face more than anything else, and he begins to articulate his fatigued frustration as clearly as he can manage with the world spinning from the sensation of physical closeness –

“Don’t be ridiculous, with your games like usual. Don’t think you can fool me, I am nowhere near that gullible.  You should know better.”

Beyond laughs against his cheek, and, inexplicably, seems to press his lips against Lawliet’s neck; shivers arch against the curve of skin, sending goosebumps down the entirety of Lawliet's body.  “Think abstractly,” he murmurs, the words etched onto the very surface of both their beings.  “You were supposed to be good at this, weren’t you, L?  The superior L? We were all supposed to try to match you, or heaven forbid, surpass you, so you should be able to suppose…”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Lawliet breathes, his train of thought distracted as he feels Beyond’s hand rest lightly on his own, the embrace dry and cool as Beyond draws circles with his thumbs onto the bones of the curve between his hand and wrist.  “You never could merely just let anything go, could you? What is the point of this… What are you hoping to accomplish…?”

_This is all happening in my mind._

The words pour from his mouth as he feels his skin burning, his deductive ability slipping with every second.  Time has never stolen from him before, but it’s stealing from him now – taking his breath, seducing his heart into beating faster, crashing and swelling like blood pumping in his veins frantically as the night drives forward into something unknown.  “After all this time,” he breathes, “you still have to come back for this…? Why?”

“I’m answering your question,” Beyond replies quietly, teasingly, leaning back to peer into Lawliet’s eyes. “If that’s quite alright with you?”

The words are oddly polite, particularly when uttered from the irreverent mouth of none other than Beyond Birthday, but Lawliet nods, uncharacteristically tumbling into the moment, ungraceful and fully aware that his skin is flushed over the expanses his of arms and cheekbones and hands.  “Get to the point,” he mutters, wholly unamused by the dramatic distractions Beyond so employs.

“If you insist.”

In a split moment – a decision that could be decided and reversed countless times within only even a minute, as Lawliet well knows, such is the nature of his nightmares – Beyond leans forward and presses his lips abruptly to Lawliet’s.

Lawliet is unable to think any words other than –

_Kira._

He feels Beyond pressing one hand against the curve of his hip underneath the loose fabric of his shirt, pushing and pulling him all at once, unbreaking from the softness – and danger – of the moment.

_Kira._

Beyond bites Lawliet’s lip, tracing hands along his chest, something dangerously tempting lacing his fingertips and drawing some sort of proverbial constellations over the patterns of blood crashing and swelling near Lawliet’s heart – that which threatens to beat straight out of his chest. It’s almost as if Beyond is beckoning his cardiac muscle to burst forth from between his lungs and ribs and bury itself in his hands, the life of a man he’d always hated and loved served on a silver platter.

Lawliet doesn’t feel the need to pull away, quelling the presence of disgust at least to the edges of his consciousness and instead losing himself in the sensation itself of physical closeness as it stirs in his stomach, compelling him to shed his very skin itself.

_Kira._

All of these subtleties, they surely have to connect somewhere, but…

There must be some mistake, surely.

All of it is one large mistake.  He’s searching for conclusions in all the wrong places, even within the relative safety of his own mind.

Only – he is never wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

This night is like any other night, save for when Lawliet wakes from his lucid dream, kicking against something that doesn’t seem to exist, his pale shirt twisted and bunched in strange places as he sits up from being curled on the floor.  He touches his cheek, surprised to find that it’s damp – whether from tears or from sweat is uncertain.

Beyond Birthday is dead, and L Lawliet is going insane.

He looks at the clock.

_5:12 in the morning._

Soon enough, the NPA will commence their meeting, and he can melt into the present.

His jaw hurts, perhaps from being clenched for so long.

 _Time to return to composure._   On the exterior, he is never shaken; he is never bruised, never caught off guard.

 

* * *

 

 

“We now know that Kira doesn’t just target criminals,” Soichiro says grimly.  “He’ll kill anyone who opposes him.  It’s quite possible that we may all be killed by Kira.”

The room full of police is somber and silent. Lawliet bites his lip, waiting for the turn of events that can only be described as predictable, and, above all, necessary.

“Consider yourselves, your families, and all the others you’d be leaving behind.”  Soichiro sighs deeply, cupping his forehead in his hands as he leans forward onto the desk. “If anyone wants to leave this investigation, now is the time.  You won’t be demoted, if you choose not to stay.  You have my word.  But if you’re not absolutely sure, then we don’t need you.  You have to be willing to fight against him, even if that means making the ultimate sacrifice.”

Lawliet switches between watching Soichiro and Matsuda; Matsuda, who – typically enough, by this stage – has raised his eyebrows, his gaze widened with some combination of fear and admiration at the proceedings, will predictably stay on the case, flooded with determination rather than blood in his veins.  

_I know the type._

“That is all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet closes his eyes, knowing, predictably, with absolutely certainty that the majority of task force members are flooding from the doors of headquarters.  Working on complex cases, such as the Kira incident, requires a certain rigidity of heart and mind. 

When he finally casts a glance at the computer monitor, there are five men left.  A quick sweeping observation indicates to him that all of them have begun the aging process, except for that one – Matsuda. Perhaps those who were still young, still unmatched, were unwilling to risk the potential of never finding their Ones.  It took a rare sort of individual to care more for justice than for the idea of finding a soulmate, so perhaps these results weren’t unpredictable – at least to anyone thinking rationally.

(Lawliet knows, intrinsically, where this will lead – what he must do next, what they will demand of him.  It’s only a matter of human nature.  His life is disintegrating into dust, even as they gaze around them and calculate the value of what remains.)

Soichiro places these observations into neatly articulated words.

“Five men, huh?” he mutters.  “Well, six, including myself.  Still, I am grateful to see that there are as many as five of you willing to risk your lives to face evil.”

“The fact that you’ve chosen to stay,” Lawliet interjects through the courtesy of the laptop and microphone, “means that you have a strong sense of justice.  I trust all of you.”

“Huh?” says one man, spinning around at the suddenness of the words, raising his eyebrows – curiosity apparently piqued, as Lawliet suspected it would be.  “Hold on just one second.  L just said he’s decided to trust us now, but honestly, what reason do we have to trust him?”

“Look, L,” pipes another, in a low, gravelly tone. “All of us have agreed to bring Kira to justice.  So I hope you understand what this means.”  His voice is almost cracking with the heaviness of the words he’s throwing out. “We’re really sticking our necks out here.  But you never have to show your face, do you?  You just give the orders.”

“I don’t see how you can expect us to work alongside you, under those conditions.”

The silence is heavy, and Lawliet bides his time, waiting to respond.  The anticipation of what he’s about to say radiates throughout his body, filling him with the realization that what he’s about to do is relatively unparalleled. It’s not unlike the sensation, he might imagine, of a raven stretching its wings in a perilous sort of flight.

“Look, L,” Soichiro adds, albeit more softly. “If all of us are going to work together on this investigation, and if you truly meant what you said about trusting the rest of us, would you come here so we can all meet in person?”

A pause. Then -

“The thought had already crossed my mind,” Lawliet drawls in response, his voice adopting boredom to conceal the grave nature of the statement.  “After all, I did say I trusted all of you.”  There’s something like a laugh residing tauntingly in the back of his throat.

This case is, truly, unlike anything he’s encountered for centuries.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet adorns them with clear instructions.

He moves quickly.  He’s able to arrive at Japan in a timely fashion, courtesy of a private jet and his tendency to pack lightly.  When he arrives, he makes the process for their rendezvous explicitly clear.

_[I’m staying at a suite at the local hotel. But I’ll be switching hotels every few days from this point on.  I want you to think of these hotel rooms as the de-facto headquarters for this investigation. If this arrangement is indeed acceptable to all of you, then split into two groups, and stagger your arrival so that you come thirty minutes apart.  Please arrange it so that you are all here at midnight.]_

While he waits for their arrival, he peers outside the window of his hotel room.  The city lights on the skyline bleed into the haze of the night; if he squints to examine the landscape with his eyes half closed, the colors fill his vision, and he feels peculiar in comparison.  His mind is buzzing with the implications of the events about to pass, but more than anything he is intrigued by the idea of the furthering of the case.

It seems strange to him that not long ago, he was standing amid the teeth of a graveyard, his soul bleeding into the ground. His skin is the same marble, his hair is the same shade of raven dark-blue, his fingers carefully wrapping around his wrists as he gazes out the window.  As far as his inclination to solve puzzles, nothing could steer him away from solving this case; it’s not only a remedy for listlessness, it’s a puzzle he is absolutely driven to uncover.

“Kira,” he whispers to his own reflection. “It seems we are getting closer to each other with every one of our steps.”

He thinks of Beyond Birthday, and imagines the vision in front of him is the one of his ghostlike partner from so long ago. The red from the lights of buildings may as well be the glow from the crimson of his eyes, and he fights to shed the imagery of being kissed and touched by someone who was, in fact, dead – and pretending to be Kira...

He shudders at the very idea of his own subconscious.

“It’s only a matter of time before we collide,” he murmurs. “So be it.  I am ready to show my face.”

_It’s not a lie._

There would be no point in lying to himself – at least not now, anyways.

He is counting on the simple fact that if Kira discovers the secret meetings he’s apt to hold with the NPA, Kira will simply be unable to refrain from involving himself with the proceedings.

Inexplicably, he senses he is being concurrently catapulted towards a beginning and a conclusion.

It appears that even a vague sense of novelty inspires these senses in him.

 

* * *

 

 

They filter into the hotel room – the hotel room, with its bright pink walls and meager furnishings, the brightness of the light so harsh that it casts strange shadows on all of their faces. Soichiro is the first, followed by Matsuda – ever searching to prove himself as brave.

Lawliet is certain that his appearance must cause some degree of shock for the members of the task force, judging by their unabashed facial expressions.  Awkwardly, he shoves his hands into his pockets, slouching over slightly. He had supposed there was no point in feigning total typicality – the task force was interested in him solely for his deductive abilities, and so instead of attempting to feign the ways his solitary nature has compelled him to physically change over the years – despite a lack of aging – he is sufficed to leave his hair in the same condition, dress in the same loose clothing, not be bothered by the tedious task of manipulating his facial expressions to reflect whatever long-overused emotion should have been overtaking him.

Life is a series of puzzles, and so this is but one more. It is not the first, and it will certainly not be the last.  Puzzles, for him, fall from the sky like stars – bountiful, extant but not necessarily tangible, something beyond his grasp to change but within his capability to observe and to speculate upon, perhaps to solving on occasion.  

“I am L,” Lawliet says quietly, his lips barely parting. It’s been quite some time since he articulated those words in the presence of company; even so, he is not overwhelmed, he merely processes the sequence of events in stride.

(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s picturing waves crashing over his head, perhaps as he either swims or drowns, for, either way, he’s soaked by water.  The distinction is unimportant.  He realizes that they must see he’s unmatched – he hasn’t aged one bit, naturally, and it must show. He pictures crabs scuttling along the floor of the ocean, just as he had inside his dream with Beyond. So they’ll know, they’ll know he’s been alive for some time, quite enough time to develop enough experience in detective, and quite enough time that indeed there would be more time still.)

The quizzical looks exchanged by the detectives speak only one singular phrase –

_He’s nothing like how we thought he would be._

_I don’t disagree,_ Lawliet muses ironically, cupping the back of his neck with one hand as the thought breaches his mind.

Breaking the silence, Soichiro bravely pulls out his identification.  “I’m Yagami. Of the NPA,” he offers.

The others follow suit.

“Uh.  Matsuda.”

“I’m Aizawa.”

“Mogi.”

“Ukita.”

Quillsh once told Lawliet that, from what he’s observed, the processing of information in his brain manifests itself on the outside in a peculiar way.  His eyes, deep grey and flat, seem to curl to life like the insides of a clock, the gears and mechanisms and pushing from one moment to the next.  He wonders what the members of the task force see, as he observes them, realizing that if, in fact, he had been Kira, they would all be dead.

_How could they just share information of such a potentially volatile nature?_

“I’m very sorry we’re late,” Soichiro begins to say. “Currently, the five of us…”

He trails off when Lawliet, still hunched over and unassuming, raises his hand, pointing his fingers in the shape of a gun.

“Bang,” Lawliet whispers, a small smile tearing at the corners of his lips, his gaze hardening as he watches the task force recoil against the door.

“What the hell was that?” demands one – Aizawa, based on the introductions, his eyes flashing with anger as he stares at Lawliet.

“Hmm.”  Lawliet’s voice curls into its typical sarcastic tone, vaguely taunting. “If I were Kira, you’d be dead, Soichiro Yagami, chief of the NPA.” 

If there was one thing six hundred years had taught him, it was the merit of keeping one’s identity elusive.  He’s careless to the cruelty of his sharp wit upon greeting the NPA; the only thing that remains important to him is the goal of finding Kira. Crafting an impenetrably biting exterior from the beginning would ultimately serve him well.  Ultimately, such a front would ensure that he’d be inaccessibly distant, continuing to keep himself aloof from those of the world that came and went with every change of seasons.

Ignoring the gasps of the NPA, Lawliet drawls along. “Kira needs a face and a name to commit murder,” he murmurs.  “But I’m sure you’ve figured that much out already, haven’t you?” The simultaneously lilting and deadpan notes in his voice are vaguely mocking. “Please.  Take care to not give away your name so carelessly. Instead, let’s value our lives.”

He ignores the whispers of Matsuda and Soichiro, and turns to venture into the living space of the hotel room. “That’s enough small talk for now. Let’s come this way,” he prompts idly. “Please turn off your cell phones, handhelds, and other communicative devices, and leave them on the table there.”

Aizawa – appearing to be combative with even the smallest of interactions – steps forward, anger coloring his face unflattering shades of dark pink.  “What do you think, we’re going to be using our cell phones casually during this meeting?” he snaps. “To leak information or something?”

Lawliet watches, privately amused, as Soichiro peers over Matsuda to mutter, “It’s alright.  Just do as he says.”  In turn, Matsuda whispers, “I know he’s been cautious from the beginning, but I still can’t tell if he trusts us or not.”

Lawliet breaks from his façade for a split moment, caught somewhat off guard by the nature of Matsuda’s question, fighting a smile from dancing across his face.  “No,” he says carefully, “I simply find them distracting.  I absolutely can’t stand it when cell phones are ringing when I’m trying to talk.”

Unspoken -

He spent the majority of six hundred years without cell phones or intrusive technologies interrupting his thought patterns, and now he finds that he thinks most effectively without their presence. After all, merely falling asleep in front of the screen of his computer led him to having peculiar dreams.

“Let me start by saying that no one takes notes on anything said in any of these meetings,” he continues, prompting the beginning of their session.  “Please. Make yourselves comfortable….And, from now on, call me Ryuzaki.”

He is certain he’s merely imagining things, but when he pauses, it’s almost as though there’s a ghost on his shoulder, prompting him to continue moving forward – that this is the beginning and ending of all things, that this quiet night with the lights peering in through the windows and bleeding all over the city, this is all things.

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the meeting, Lawliet establishes a few things, articulating the information he’s worked through in the dark and sharing the information with the task force.

Kira has met all of his challenges head-on.

So they will manipulate Kira at his own game by leaking to the press that more investigators – thousands of them – will be fighting to work on the case, even though only their small task force will continue to actively investigate.  Kira will start to feel cornered, and he’ll lean into doing something irrational and obvious.

By looking at the amount of people who had access to information about headquarters, and those who the FBI investigated within the first five days – they will be able to significantly narrow down the list of suspects who could potentially be Kira.

Lawliet lists his ideas smoothly and carefully, wholly unsettled until Soichiro asks him one question.

“Actually, Ryuzaki – I do have one question for you,” Soichiro asks tentatively, after they’ve carefully laid out their plan for checking the list of potential suspects.  “And it pertains to what you told us – that you hate to lose. Does the fact that you’ve shown us your face…mean that you’ve lost?  By just being here, are you admitting defeat?”

The question is an intriguing one, and within the span of a few moments, Lawliet sifts through his memories.  He knows specifically to what Soichiro is referring, but he cannot help the thoughts racing to him, unbidden, the hidden implications –

Does just the fact he lives on still, admit that he has been defeated?  That the world has defeated him, and he has lost?

“…To Kira?” Soichiro adds after a silent moment.

“That’s right,” Lawliet says evenly, the inner workings of his brain unspoken, “by showing you my face and sacrificing the lives of twelve FBI agents, I have indeed lost the battle.  But I am not going to lose the war.  This is the first time I’ve ever put my life on the line.”

_The first time in six hundred years, veritably._

“I want to show Kira that we’re all willing to risk our lives if that’s what it takes.  And justice will prevail.  No matter what.”

_No matter what._

 

* * *

 

 

He stands at the window, listening out of one ear while the task force members pour over the work in front of them.

He hears Matsuda say, “You’re right. It’s admirable. He’s risking his life to be here.”

Things are going well, he muses.

Just one clue, a single decisive factor is all he needs.

Just one oversight.  Just one single piece of evidence.

It could cost them their lives.

It could cost him his life.

_Could cost me my life._

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples. 

Long after the task force leaves, familiar settles like dust onto his skin and hair, and he sees nothing is changed.

Anything that is changed resides in his mind alone.

_Justice will prevail, no matter what._

The purpose of his life is to see the story to the end.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, when the task force arrives, Lawliet is carefully crouched on the sofa, listening to the work unfolding before him under his instruction when he hears his cell phone ring.

“Hello?” he says, picking up the thing with the lightest of touches between his thumb and forefinger.

The conversation lasts only a few moments.

When it’s over, he turns to the task force.

“Watari is coming up now.”

He’s taken to calling Quillsh, Watari – aliases abound in their line of work, indeed.

Something unfamiliar surges in his stomach.

Purpose, perhaps.

_We are not listless._

 

* * *

 

 

When they meet Quillsh, they seem surprised to gaze at him without the abundance of jackets and hats covering his entire visage.

The wonder seems to last as Quillsh distributes police badges with new aliases carved on them for all the members of the task force.

Lawliet is unable to sit still. 

He still feels he’s being catapulted to something beautiful.  It’s dancing on the edge of his vision – it’s peculiar, to know he’s waiting for nothing, but even so, he feels alive. 

This is something.  They are something. 

 _This is something._ Isn’t it?

 

* * *

 

 

Days pass.

It’s of no consequence to L Lawliet.

_Time is time is time._

(Time only matters at all because of Kira.)

 

* * *

 

 

They’re staying awake late one night, analyzing the fall of FBI Agent Raye Penber, when something stirs deep in Lawliet’s stomach. He’s barely slept since his nightmare about Beyond Birthday, so submitting to consciousness is hardly difficult for him.  He’s unsure if his drive arises from fear of what he’ll see when he closes his eyes, or from the compulsion to continue working until he solves this puzzle, because it’s him who needs to solve this puzzle.  Only he can.

So they stay awake late, and eat ice cream, courtesy of Quillsh.

“It’s quite strange, isn’t it?” Lawliet muses, after listening to Matsuda list the actions and events leading up to Penber’s collapse on the train station platform.

“What is?” inquires Soichiro, his voice rife with concealed fatigue.

“Mmm.  We know that Raye Penber got on the train, and then an hour and a half later he got off and died on the platform.  But that line only takes an hour to complete its circuit,” Lawliet says quietly. “And, more importantly, there’s the envelope.”

“What do you mean?” Aizawa inquires, a bit of his ice cream melting from the cone onto his hand, but he doesn’t appear to notice.

Rewinding the video tape on the television screen in front of them, Lawliet murmurs, “It looks like he’s holding an envelope when he passes through the ticket gate.”

“Oh…my…you’re right.”

They fast forward through the rest of the tape, until they find –

“But on the footage right before his death,” Aizawa shouts, throwing himself across the coffee table, “the envelope is gone! Ryuzaki, I can’t believe you actually caught that.”

“I don’t see an envelope on this list of personal effects,” Soichiro adds softly, his glasses glinting in the soft light of the hotel space. 

“Which means,” Lawliet says, his voice lowering as realization dawns on him, “it was left on the train.  And if you watch closely, at the very end here – it seems like he’s straining to look inside the train, before the doors close. You can see…right here. Wouldn’t it be…interesting…if Kira were on that train?”

“That’s impossible,” says Soichiro, peering out from over the handful of papers he’s grasping, his knuckles bleeding white.

“I must admit, I find it hard to believe as well,” Lawliet says quietly, “as there’s no reason for him to arrive when he can kill from a distance.  Or, perhaps he was counting on us to make that assumption, and figured he could get away with such a bold move.”

The room falls to silence, crashing and swelling more dangerously than any melody Lawliet has ever known. He’s so close to finding his suspect, he can feel it deep in the cavern of his chest, beckoning him to whatever precipice he’s all too willing to follow to the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, they receive a tip from a caller, when they’re investigating in a new hotel room.

 _Naomi Misora_ , the phone whispers to Lawliet.

_Naomi Misora._

He’s heard the name before.

He glances over at Quillsh, hoping that he’ll read what’s in his eyes, the inquiry – instinctively, his pale blue gaze keen on the computer, Quillsh types the name into the searching processor. When he peers over his shoulder, Lawliet’s eyes widen visibly at the results of the rudimentary investigation.

It’s her. 

_It’s…her. It’s her._

Naomi Misora. 

From the Los Angeles BB murder case.

Beyond Birthday.

_L is After Beyond Birthday._

Chills run down his spine.

Perhaps Beyond Birthday had been correct to haunt his nightmares.  Lawliet’s vision is dizzyingly spun with imagery of fire, of cries into the darkness for help, screams and ungodly scarlet eyes peering into his own, grasping at him – perhaps there was a connection between him and Kira after all.

Perhaps he’d known all along.

“Well,” he murmurs to the task force, his audience watching intently as he hangs up the phone without another word – turning away from the computer while hiding his hands in his pockets to conceal the shaking. “Apparently she’s been missing since the day after her fiancé died.” 

His dry, blasé tone masks the peculiar sensation prickling at the base of his spine, the ghost of touches where he’d imagined Beyond running a hand across his hips, burning as though he’d been branded by something hot.

“I’m sure anyone in her situation would be pretty depressed,” Matsuda remarks quietly, addressing no one in particular. “Was it…”

“Suicide?” Aizawa finishes, standing next to Matsuda, pressing his mouth into a thin line as he anticipates the answer to the question he’d never truly wanted to ask, from what Lawliet can discern. “Especially if he was her…One. Was he her One?”

They can almost hear Matsuda audibly gulp at the very mention of the monosyllabic term, carrying more connotations and sentiments than a thousand phrases could bear to muster.

“I’m not sure if he was her One.  She hadn’t started to age when she was working under me,” Lawliet mutters, almost to himself.  “But, no.  The Naomi Misora I knew was strong.  And she was also a most excellent FBI agent.  If anything, it’s more likely she’d be trying to catch Kira.  She has a history of…”  He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, picturing crimson blurring his vision. “It appears she came to Japan with Penber, but it’s possible she may have found a lead…” 

His toes curl against the carpet. He always hated shoes. And some things never change, indeed.

_If that were the case, did Kira manage to get to her first?_

He reaches to bite his thumb, and chews too hard, too fast, feeling pain shoot through his hand.

“Everyone.  At this point,” he murmurs, pacing to the edge of the room, “I’d like to focus our investigation on only the people Raye Penber was tailing.” His free hand twists in his pocket, feeling the sensation of fabric against his fingertips, trying to steady himself by concretizing the veritable possibility that they may have taken a dramatic step forward.

Perhaps one foreshadowed by Beyond Birthday – or his subconscious – himself. 

“In particular, he was assigned to two police officers, and those closest to them.”  Lawliet stares at the wall, predicting – sans sarcasm, sans the heart beating in his chest, sans sentiment, sans any of it – the implications of the implosion he is about to catalyze.

“Very well,” replies Soichiro stiffly. “Who are these two individuals he was investigating?”

Lawliet turns, peering over his shoulder like a bird, the darkness of his hair covering part of his eyes.  “Deputy Director Kitamura,” he says softly, “along with Detective Superintendent Yagami and their families.”

Glass shatters, silently – the walls tumble.

“At this point,” he continues evenly, ignoring the gasps behind him, for they simply do not matter, “I’d like to place wire taps and surveillance cameras in both households.” 

His voice curls over the last few words like poison.

It’s the kind of poison that seeps not only into himself, but into everything he touches – it shimmers in the way he turns his head away from his audience, bleeds in through his fingernails, dyes the world crimson – the way it must have been for Beyond.

A pause.  Then –

“How can you even…consider this?” Mogi says frustratedly, and Lawliet watches from the corner of his eyes as the task force member lifts the cup of his hand to the back of his neck, shaking his head at the ground unceremoniously. 

Aizawa, not to be outdone in his vocal protestations, adds, “If this got out, we’d have a civil rights scandal on our hands. You do realize, we’d all lose our jobs.” His voice is nothing more than a low growl.

“You told me you’d be willing to risk your lives for this investigation,” Lawliet retorts swiftly, turning to look at the pairs of wide eyes scanning him.  “And yet you’re telling me you aren’t willing to risk your jobs.”

Not unpredictably, Matsuda sputters, but remains wholly silent as he watches Lawliet’s gaze narrow with a quick sweep around the room. “Ryuzaki, what are the odds,” Soichiro asks quickly, “that Kira is in one of those households?”

(Here, Lawliet is unwilling to reveal the actual realizations he conceals in his sleeves.)

Smiling privately, he feigns thoughtfulness, and peers at the ceiling of the room, staring most intently at the corner where the two walls met in an iconic sort of collision.  “Maybe about ten percent,” he muses.  “No.  Perhaps closer to five percent.”  He hums in the back of his throat, feeling the thinness of his spine wrapped against the back of his shirt.

“Seriously?” Matsuda calls from the back of the room, frustration unmasked either in his vocals or in his facial expressions. “I’m sorry, but it’s not worth the risk....”

Lawliet closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side. Certainly, someone had to realize the veritable benefits of such a procedure – it’s only within the nature of such individuals to realize that dedication to justice – to discovering the truth – would overcome all other obstacles.  It was only a matter of time – and, indeed, as he knew quite well, there would be time.

And, surely enough –

“No,” says Soichiro firmly, in response to Matsuda’s exclamation, and when Lawliet casts a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder, he sees that the chief of police is deep in thought, brow furrowed and hand pressed to his forehead.  “Of all the people we’ve investigated, not one seemed the least bit suspicious. Even with a five percent chance, we can’t afford to ignore it.”

Barely audible, a soft cry of: “Chief?” from the corner; Matsuda is seemingly perplexed.

“I don’t have to tell you how offended I am that my family is under suspicion,” Soichiro continues, lifting his head to gaze at Lawliet with a nearly unreadable expression.   “Having said that…” He takes a deep breath.  “Just go ahead with it.  And make sure you install them everywhere.  I don’t want any blind spots in the house, and that includes the bathrooms.”

Ignoring the indignant gasps from the other corners of the room, Lawliet faces Soichiro and bows his head slightly. “Thank you very much,” he says quietly. “That was my intention.”

“Come on, chief,” Aizawa says, exasperated, from being Soichiro.  “You don’t have to agree to…to this.”

“He’s right.  Think about your family,” whispers Matsuda, sounding vaguely horrified, as though he had never heard of anything quite so terrifying.  “You have a wife and daughter at home, don’t you?”

“It may surprise you to learn I’m well aware of that fact,” Soichiro snaps, and Lawliet watches as he spins around to confront the other two.  “But there’s no point in doing any of this if we can’t be thorough.  Now I suggest you keep quiet.”

Just as Lawliet suspected all along.

He had predicted such an outcome would be favorable. Feeling somewhat conflicted, Lawliet paces to the couch and sits, leaning on the base of his heels as usual, and tucking his knees close to his chin.  “As a courtesy to the chief,” he says, “only he and I will conduct research involving the tapes.  Watari, how long will it take to prepare the wiretaps and surveillance cameras we need?”

Quillsh tilts his head to the side, carefully staring at his computer and drawing a circle idly on the surface of the desk at which he sits.  “Well, I can begin tomorrow,” he muses carefully, “given that I would know when both households will be empty…”

The ideal circumstance.

The familiar sensation of victory twists in Lawliet’s stomach, but it’s sweeter this time around, for whatever inexplicable reason. Perhaps because he’s in the vicinity of company – but this is something new.  It’s as though his heart is slowly ascending to his lips.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples. 

That night, nothing is different.

When he sleeps, only for a few scant hours, he is dreamless.

 


	7. Dying With a Dying Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He frowns slightly, gazing at the smooth lines of Light’s skin, casting a glance at the amber eyes staring expectantly at him as cherry blossoms fall around them like stars. For, in a minute, there is always time for decisions and for revisions, that every other moment could reverse – none of it was anything different from any other moment. Surely, one handshake couldn’t end his life. He was speaking with his suspect in the Kira investigation, after all – and that was the riskiest thing he’d done in six centuries.

 

_I know the voices dying with a dying fall  
_ _Beneath the music from a farther room.  
_ _So how should I presume?  
_ _[…]  
_ _To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,  
_ _Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—  
_ _[…]_ _  
_ _We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  
_ _By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown  
_ _Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

 

 

[It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples.

The night before the video camera surveillance begins, everything is the same, expectantly. Lawliet laughs at the idea that unless Touta Matsuda is his soulmate, he will still be immortal when he wakes – provided, that is, that the symbols of his aging arrive in a timely enough fashion.

It’s all fun and games, a wonderful joke. At least, until someone dies.]

 

* * *

 

 

Naomi Misora’s One had not been Raye Penber. Lawliet was sure of that – he can feel it his bones, regardless of the circumstances of Naomi’s disappearance, or Raye’s murder.  It’s an unshakeable certainty that drives him, and when he wakes from his light sleep, it’s the first thing that graces his mind. 

When they started the investigation of the Los Angeles BB murder case – or, the L.A.B.B. case, as he preferred to refer to it – to begin with, she’d already known Penber.  In fact, they’d been engaged.  They had been a couple for quite some time, from what he could infer. As for why they were engaged when, from what he could tell from meeting her in the weeks following the conclusion of their case, she had not aged a bit – well, that was simply none of his business. At least she hadn’t started aging after meeting Beyond, as that would be quite the unbelievably nightmarish scenario.

It was extraordinarily rare for couples that had not been matched, with each party being the One of the other, to become engaged. In many such circumstances, the arrangement was beneficial in some sort of legal way, with all the rights and benefits accompanying such a prospect.  Or, perhaps, as with other cases, they were in love – and didn’t anticipate that they would find their Ones within a given amount of time. It was something of a temporary engagement, until one party found their soulmate.  Forever was a long time to spend alone, after all.

Naomi had provided the most beneficial of assistances to him, when the L.A.B.B. murder spree began.  Beyond had disappeared not too long before the case began, naturally – and Lawliet, itching towards catapulting forward, knowing that he should expect something any day as an indicative sign of the exact pinpoints of his rival, had recognized the precise signs of Beyond’s work the moment they arrived.

He had needed help.

So, while he resided carefully back in his office at Wammy’s, calculating every move – placing his faith in Naomi, to whom he reached out for help – knowing with certainty that Beyond’s intention was to match Lawliet by becoming not the strongest detective in the world, but the strongest criminal. Without Naomi, the case would fall to bits – become the unsolvable predicament, especially as Beyond’s final intention –

[From what Lawliet could deduce –]

All along, his final intention – to kill himself, and make the case essentially untraceable to its source.

That was why he’d set himself on fire, intending to perish underneath the flames, burn his hair to nothingness and shed his skin until it no longer existed.  He’d burst into flames so as to create the perfect crime, the perfect mystery – one worthy of L Lawliet himself.  Beyond Birthday would die along with his sins without having had to age a single day from his eighteenth birthday.  He was the perfect fourth victim, one both unknowingly and knowingly falling prey to himself.

Only then, following the aftermath of the duel between the ideal detective and the ideal criminal, would the longevity of their existences hold relevance, or so Beyond seemed to suppose.

Because of Naomi, they were able to hold Beyond back from the brink of death, aborting the mission that had been the intention all along. Just before he was able to let himself die in the hotel room in which they wound up, anticipating the death of an imaginary fourth victim, she had rushed to his side – realizations crashing into her mind just in time – and apprehended him.

They were all damned in the same way, the three of them, to eternal life – from what Lawliet could tell.

Well, two out of the three of them had met their deaths through Kira.

Lawliet would not fall, the third victim.

He was risking his life, but not throwing it away, or handing it to anyone.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a clear night, when they first sit down together watch the tapes.  Soichiro’s brow is furrowed as he comes to sit next to Lawliet on the couch, watching the grainy black-and-white film of the cameras.

“His name is Light Yagami. Is that correct?” Lawliet asks Soichiro in a low drawl, his voice hushed as he softly pushes a thumb into his mouth, watching the surveillance cameras.  He knows he’s not mistaken, but he deliberately verbalizes the pieces of the puzzle falling into his brain.  He knows that in order to be understood, he must speak.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Soichiro replies, somewhat gruffly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  His signals of discomfort are not overt, but to someone as experienced as Lawliet in reading the signs of everyone around him – and feeling those things that he adapts from everyone around him ever so keenly – the gestures are obvious.

They watch as Light himself enters through the front door, and paces through the hallways of the Yagami household.  It’s difficult to see him through the dim view presented by the cameras, but if Lawliet squints carefully, he can catch a glimpse of the details – the neatly pressed attire Light adorns, and the way his hair is swept carefully over the back of his neck, perfectly straight.  From what he can tell, he has a nice face, the features calm and somewhat angular, undoubtedly well-composed even without the grace of cleaner details to indicate to him more specifically the merits of the person before him.

Lawliet can tell with certainty that Light hasn’t grown older than eighteen, but the question leaps, unbidden, from his lips before he can carefully weigh the benefits of articulating his curiosity. “Is he aging?” he murmurs to Soichiro.

“No.  He only just turned eighteen this past February.”  The reply is calm, preceded by a deep breath and a sweep of the forehead, the sound of fabric rustling against the couch and hands pressed onto the cushions. Lawliet bites his thumb a little harder. His initial profile of Kira had been someone who hadn’t commenced aging – someone impassioned by the world, and not by interpersonal relations, someone who still felt connections tying himself to the world that did not first cross through the path of another human’s wrist – in other words, someone rather like Lawliet himself.

They watch in silence as Light, his back turned mostly to the cameras, shrugs his bookbag from his shoulders and takes a seat nonchalantly at his desk, nothing but the picture of innocence.

They settle in for a long while.

 

* * *

 

 

Light has been stationary for nearly one whole hour before Soichiro dares to speak.

“Ryuzaki,” he murmurs.

“Mmm.  Yes?”

“How old are you…exactly?”

Lawliet pauses. 

“It’s no matter of concern.  But, ah, if you would like to know… Older than one hundred years, I can say with certainty.”

He registers the soft whistle from between Soichiro’s teeth, feels the disbelief hanging between him and enveloping him in dust that rests on the delicate hollows of his bones.

Only Quillsh knows for certain how old he is, veritably. It’s not information he’s likely to share with anyone in any capacity, regardless of how deeply he may trust Soichiro.

 

* * *

 

 

From what they can tell by studying the sketches portrayed in the cameras, comprised of all outlines and grainy images, Light Yagami – precious more than a shadow of a cartoon before them – simply completes an abundance of homework.

The first vaguely abnormal action he takes is not one that is, by many standards, abnormal in the slightest.  They watch as he retrieves a plain, paper bag and removes a magazine, lying on his bed and tilting the magazine, and –

It’s difficult to discern through the relative haziness of the camera, but there’s no mistake that the variety of magazine Light is holding onto is pornographic in nature.  There’s no mistaking the contents of the magazine.  In fact, they have nearly a perfect view of the centerfolds, almost as if the magazines were placed as a form of product advertisement.  Lawliet narrows his eyes slightly, tucking his knees closer to his chin and lifting a thumb delicately to his lips.  He doesn’t break his gaze from the monitors, particularly as he processes the entirety of the scene laid before him.

“I can’t believe my son is looking at those magazines,” he says, voice hushed with apparent disgust.  “He’s so serious.  How could he look at those sorts of magazines…?”

Moving this thumb from his mouth, Lawliet says softly, “That’s normal for an eighteen year old.  Particularly one that hasn’t been matched. But even so, something’s not quite right…”

“How so?” Soichiro’s reply is perhaps too quick, too snappy.

“To me, it seems as though he’s using it as some sort of excuse,” Lawliet returns evenly, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “As if to say, ‘I check to see if anyone has been in my room, because I read dirty magazines.’” His voice twists quietly over the syllables, the words hanging somewhere in the space between his lips and the blurry visual of the back of Light’s head. 

After living in Wammy’s House, it was evident that some behaviors occurred on the principle of trying to hide things that were perhaps better left as secrets.  Something about Light’s actions – perhaps his almost deliberate placement of the magazine, such that the cameras could directly whisper over his shoulder and spill his alleged secrets – indicates to Lawliet that he should be suspicious.

After all, it’s been six hundred years, and not much escapes him.  The world is his graph, he sees all the planes stretching before him and he basks in their range of possibilities.  Some possibilities are always more likely than others, and he suspects that it’s more likely than not that the use of incorporating these magazines…is nothing other than a guise.

Lawliet is certain that Light Yagami is hiding something.

It calls to him from some deep pit in his stomach, the same sort of twisting sentiment that overtook him when Beyond disappeared and he knew – instinctively – that he was being twisted into the depths of someone else’s plan, and he knew better than to fall into traps.

“Ryuzaki, don’t tell me, you…you actually suspect my son?” Soichiro’s voice is a low growl, realization crashing over his head like a wave, like he had stumbled into a trap and was pressed up against a fence. 

Lawliet smiles a little.  “Oh, I definitely suspect him, alright,” he whispers in reply, his gaze unbreaking from the screen.  “That’s the reason I set up the cameras and wires in you and the deputy’s houses.”

“That’s…” Soichiro trails off, apparently at a loss for words.  They watch, silent and anticipatory, as Light stands from his bed, magazine in hand, his face completely calm from what they can see.  He places it carefully on a bookshelf, crouching onto the floor so that his knees kiss the ground; he then brushes off his shirt, smoothing his hair in the back.

He’s too perfect, Lawliet realizes, the words leaping unbidden to his mind.  He’s too perfect. There certainly must be something compelling such perfection.  It’s not simply a phenomenon regarding his looks and study habits, it’s something that seems to dwell in every facet of his life, everything unblemished and ideal. The only thing missing is the fact that he is unmatched – without his One, he could never be fully incorporated into society, but it’s unimportant compared to the impressive track record he sports with his high school accomplishments.

Light Yagami would have no trouble finding his One, Lawliet realizes with a vaguely bitter twinge in his lungs and a peculiar crushing in his chest.  People from far and wide would be eager to meet him; women would hang from his arms in the hopes that they would be fated to be together, and perhaps even some men might fight to reach him.  They’d want to see what his face looked like with laugh lines crawling towards his eyes and forehead, if he was still as handsome when he slowly faded into nothingness with someone dragging him by their side.

Maybe he’d be damned to immortality, but it was unlikely. Light Yagami never had to deal with knee socks, or silly Victorian-era hats, or long waistcoats, or having a ghost who spanned across centuries haunt him by trying to create the perfect challenge. What did he have to be angry about, Lawliet wonders idly; if he was indeed Kira, what was his final goal?

Someone so perfect must be hiding something, and certainly something more than mild attraction to hypersexualized photographs.. It’s an intuitive feeling that he cannot shake, and in fact, it crawls underneath Lawliet’s skin, impossible to ignore.  It’s almost physically unsettling, forbidding him from looking away from the screen.

“Light…” Soichiro whispers, watching as Light climbs from the floor and leaves the room, heading down the stairs, apparently to sit with the rest of his family for dinner.  There’s a sort of plea in his voice, something else that’s impossible to ignore.

There’s a basket of apples on the table, and dinner is served neatly on careful, delicate plates.  When they watch the family eat, Lawliet takes note of what plays on the television screen.  From what he can see, if he squints carefully, it’s a scene from a show – a popular one, if he’s not mistaken.  He glances between the television and Light, watching the bored way that Light twists his fork around on his plate.

On the other hand, the person on the screen is Hideki Ryuga, undoubtedly one of the most popular film stars in Japan. He looks vaguely similar to Light, except with brighter hair that trails along his cheekbones and conceals his face more severely.  He hasn’t started aging yet, and – as many rumors suggest – his popularity stems dominantly from his appealing looks.  In the scene on the screen, Lawliet can tell he’s standing in the rain, hair drenched with water, in some sort of sweeping romantic gesture.

The camera flashes to the girl standing across from him on what appears to be a roof, the wind blowing back her umbrella from her fingers, an expression of surprise coloring her wide eyes, her eyebrows furrowing in apparent surprise and a lovely sort of horror.

The scene fills Lawliet with a strange sort of apprehension, almost as if something in his stomach is catapulting him forward to the scene.  When he looks down, he finds that his fingernails are buried in the fabric of the sofa, rather than in his jeans or in his mouth. 

He’ll remember the name.

“Wow, Ryuga! You’re so cool,” he hears someone say, and he realizes that it’s Light’s younger sister – Sayu, if he remembers the name correctly.  He glances over at Soichiro quickly – Soichiro, who is still pressing his lips into a thinner line than Lawliet can recall having seen anytime in the past century.

“There’s definitely no one that cool in my class,” Sayu says longingly, and they watch as she curls her hands into a knot held close to her heart as she peers into the television screen, her eyes wide as she crouches directly in front of the screen away from the dinner table.

“Sayu, eat your dinner,” says her mother, who Lawliet remembers is named Sachiko.  He can tell she’s begun aging – presumably as a result of her relationship with Soichiro, and he feels almost as though he’s noticed something intimate beyond his bounds through the very principle of the observation. Even so, it doesn’t bother him, merely piques his interest in a morbid sort of fashion.

“Later,” Sayu calls back, leaning even closer to the screen, her voice wistful.

Lawliet absentmindedly grabs his cell phone from the table next to the couch, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger so as to prevent it from bleeding with his fingerprints.  “Aizawa-san,” he says carefully, the moment his contact picks up the phone, “is the Kitamura family watching television right now?”

“Yes,” comes the muffled reply.  “Except for the deputy, they’re all watching while eating dinner. They’re watching channel four.”

“Watari,” Lawliet says evenly in turn, moving the phone from his face and wholly anticipating this chain of events, keeping his voice low, “quickly contact the TV station and ask them to broadcast that tape.” His eyes are glowing from the light of the screen in front of him, still unwilling to cast his gaze away from the scenes unfolding before him, beautiful and dangerous in a cresting and swelling sort of dance.

“Understood,” says Quillsh from the corner of the room, where he has been residing quietly like the brightest of shadows – just as he has for every other moment, and the gesture of his reassurance is hardly lost on Lawliet.

Lawliet watches the screen as he anticipates the change in atmosphere as the message they crafted is aired to the public. He feels the breaths rake in and out of his chest, surely as they always have, but the very principle of his longevity isn’t the dominant thought in his mind; rather, he cannot help but wonder about the veritable effectiveness of the message about to be displayed. If Kira were truly as intelligent as he seemed to be, then there was a chance the plan could veer astray.

If Lawliet listens carefully, he can hear the humming of the television in the back of the cameras.  The program is continuing, cheerfully, and he watches with eyes narrowed, when Hideki Ryuga is cut off by an abrupt, yet nonverbal, humming that seems to send him into dust as words also filling the entirety of the television screen.

“The ICPO have decided to send 1,500 investigators from the most developed nations into Japan to assist with the Kira case.”

Lawliet knows the screen reads as such, even if the words are too small for his eyes to discern from such a distance.

“Huh?  What’s this?” Sayu asks brightly, tilting her head to cast her gaze upon the programming, and she begins to read from the screen.  She softly says the written words underneath her breath, adorning them with life, and then repeats them more loudly for her family to hear. Next to Lawliet, Soichiro visibly clenches a fist, and Lawliet responds only by tilting his head to the side and stretching his neck, giving the appearance of boredom as he watches the proceedings. It suits his purpose to appear indifferent, particularly as he runs his eyes over Light. 

Perhaps Light is seeking to do the same thing – adorn an unsuspecting mask.

“Fifteen hundred people?” Sayu says softly, awe masking any sort of fear.  “Wow.” She slowly tilts her center of balance back and forth, leaning closer to the television screen and then pulling back like some sort of inspired pendulum.   On the other hand, Light Yagami lifts his head, and carefully setting his silverware on the table and pushing his chair from the table slightly. Lawliet feels himself leaning forward, pushing his thumb even closer to his lips, waiting for any sign – even one – that could assist him in the case.

In six hundred years, he has rarely been so directly involved with one of his cases.

In six hundred years, he had never felt so strongly that he was leaning on the precipice of something important, as though he were standing on the edge of a skyscraper and could easily fall into the sea of lights that sped beneath his toes and glowed in through translucent windows.

The only precipice he’d been risky enough to fall down had been that of Beyond Birthday’s nuanced traps and puzzles – but in the end, neither of them had won, not even Lawliet – not truly.

“The ICPO sure is stupid.”

The voice is soft, but slices through the air like the sharpest of knives.  Lawliet instinctively feels the muscles in his arms and legs tensing.  He knows it’s Light Yagami’s voice; his words are soft lilts, perfect expression and intonation, save for the idea that there seems to be some sort of secret drifting in and out of the meaning – something subtle, perhaps unnoticeable to anyone watching on the outside, but it’s something Lawliet leans in to.

“Huh?” Sayu asks, spinning around to face Light in surprise, her eyes wide and her hair flipping against the back of her neck as she twists abruptly.

“There’s simply no point in making an announcement like that,” Light says, his voice filled with confidence, and Lawliet can’t help but smile the smallest bit – an expression he quickly dismisses from his lips and moves his hands to the tops of his knees.  “If they’re going to send in investigators, they should do it quietly. Even the members of the FBI, who were investigating in utmost secrecy, were killed.  This is just going to be a repeat of what already happened.”

Lawliet hears Sayu gasp quietly, but he doesn’t break his case from staring at Light’s profile – at his arms laid carefully on the table, at the confidence that seems to radiate from the center of his chest, his perfect posture.  He is unnervingly picturesque, particularly out-of-place in an environment such as this.

“This is just an overblown attempt to shock Kira into exposing himself,” Light continues with a smile creeping into his voice, leaning forward onto the table as though he’s so caught up in his words that he’s losing control of his own balance.  “But…it might just be completely obvious to Kira.” 

Was that something?

It had to be something.  The confidence with which he spoke…

L Lawliet smiles and leans closer to the screen in front of him, almost falling off the sofa with the force of his own anticipation overpowering him, feeling the blood rush to close to his skin. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so overwhelmed by the sudden imprint of a puzzle piece into his brain, but it’s similar to the vague impression of his dream of Beyond – that something is there, on the edge of his consciousness, and he’s almost there.

“Your son is very smart,” he murmurs to Soichiro, whose head snaps in Lawliet’s direction.  And it’s a veritable claim, for that matter – for someone so young, Light seems to be carefully attuned to the very existence of the setting around him.

_Knowing that they’re looking for him…_

There’s a peculiar buzzing in Lawliet’s thumbs, one that he cannot bite away; only answers could sate his curiosity.

“Huh?” is the quiet response.  “Yeah, well…” 

Silence falls between them, but to Lawliet, it’s barely noticeable.  He still has yet to look away from the screen, and he watches as Light clears his plate in the sink and procures a bag of potato chips from a cabinet, much to the apparent dismay of Sayu and Sachiko.  He calmly walks back to his room, a cup of coffee in hand, beginning to study for exams with papers laid out deliberately across his desk.

Through the cameras, they see only the crisp whiteness of Light Yagami’s shirt, and the way he sits in his chair, notebooks spilling out over the surface of the desk.  Even given the unchanging calm of the screen, Lawliet doesn’t bring himself to look in any other direction.

“After dinner, your son has continued to study, without turning on a computer or television – hasn’t he?” Lawliet whispers after a long while, his words as much a question as a response to what burns in his own mind.

“It’s because the Entrance Exams are fewer than ten days away,” Soichiro supplies, the shifting of his arms indicating to Lawliet that he’s adjusting his glasses and the sleeves of his suit with careful, small movements.  He glances over, once, the world blurring with light, and then continues to stare at his suspect’s back.

Time continues to pass, measured only in the way that the graininess of the camera shifts before them in blurred lines. After some time, they see Light Yagami throw away his bag of potato chips, and stretch – laughing, seemingly, as he says, “Alright, just a little more.”  A careful murmur to himself, perhaps meant to be caught by the possibility of foreign gazes being cast upon him for the sake of observation.

Lawliet is racing to calculate the possibility of hidden meanings in such a phrase when they’re interrupted by the sound of borderline frantic footsteps, quick and sharp against the floors. “Ryuzaki,” Quillsh says abruptly, and Soichiro turns around, while Lawliet remains stationary

 “Watari. What is it?”

“Two people just broadcast on today’s nine o’clock news – a bank clerk on suspicion of embezzlement during questioning, and a purse snatcher in a detention center – just died of heart attacks.” Quillsh is slightly breathless and his words fall into a jumbled mess, and Lawliet can picture him trying to straighten his suit jacket and breathe slowly in and out, while the updates undoubtedly strike in him some chord of excitement.

Soichiro jumps to his feet beside Lawliet. “It’s him.  It’s Kira!” he cries, perhaps unconsciously grabbing at his chest, and then cupping a hand at the back of his neck.

“During that time in your home,” Lawliet murmurs, “your wife and daughter were watching a drama.  As soon as that was finished, they turned off the television and didn’t watch anything afterwards.  From just past seven-thirty until now, at eleven o’clock, the only thing your son has done is study. Kira needs a name and a face to kill… It seems so obvious, somewhat deliberate.  Those who did not watch the news, can’t be Kira, huh?”

“My family should be cleared now. Right?” says Soichiro, with a slight cough, leaning closer to Lawliet.  His voice is somewhat pained, vaguely pleading.

“Kira killed people with minor crimes as soon as they were broadcast, didn’t he?” Lawliet muses aloud.  “Even if it is the first day the cameras were used, the Yagami household is, interestingly…in the clear.”

And, somehow, even so.

Something seems amiss.

Lawliet tucks a thumb into his mouth, knowing that both Soichiro and Quillsh are gazing at him as he continues to stare at the screen, still somehow unconsciously leaning forward.

Something – the kind of thing Beyond would whisper to him, deep within his consciousness – is missing.

 

* * *

 

 

Time passes, as surely as anything else.

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples.

That night, nothing changes; his exterior is as unchanged as ever, even if the thought of their observations on the case makes his cheeks flush slightly with the burn of anticipation – the sort of thing he would never dare to show.

It doesn’t suit his persona for the case.

He tries to sleep, but he cannot help noticing the ways shadows dance on the floor of the hotel room, and he’s instead lying awake for hours – thinking of what Beyond would say to him.  If he’d try again to pull him too close, or if that was nothing other than a mechanism or a manifestation of an overactive consciousness that refused to allow him to rest even when he so desired.

No matter what he allows himself to think, he doesn’t allow this – that somewhere, in his mind, a thought whispers that he is vaguely…

And, of course, it’s a facet of thinking that simply isn’t necessarily for the case.  Even so, he cannot help but think of how the shadows cast on his pillow look like someone’s hair has been delicately splayed across the fabric, and that if he concentrates, when he flips over to the face the window, he can picture that someone else is lying with their back pressed against his.

And so, his spine hurts, just as surely as if someone had taken the stars from his skin to place into the stars.

It’s impossible to ignore the fact that the societal expectations of finding a One, and the idea of aging – of course, the ridiculous paradigm of aging – is playing an enormous role in the case, one that has yet to be acknowledged as any sort of motive or reason for Kira’s existence.  The whole time they’ve been asking who, and not why – perhaps they could start the other way around. He cannot help but wonder what would happen if Kira suddenly found his One, if it were Light Yagami who suddenly found his One – and how that would change the course of the case. If everything would drop off the side of the earth, spinning over a cliff and they were left with no answers, in precisely the same sort of perfectly unsolvable case that Beyond Birthday had always aspired to craft.

He tells himself that this case is the only thing that matters, until his vision blurs from fatigue and his toes are curled against the sheets.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, they’re sitting in a new hotel room, sifting through boxes and boxes of papers and tapes that never seem to relent.

“Ryuzaki,” Soichiro says softly.

“Yes?”

Lawliet is facing away from him, sifting through piles of tapes and staring at the screen of live footage, twirling a fork between his fingers absentmindedly.

“About the purse-snatcher and embezzler’s heart attacks two days ago…  That happened before my family had any knowledge of it.  Have they been cleared?”

Lawliet raises the fork to his teeth and chews on it lightly.  “I suppose you’re right. Even though Kira can control the time of death, I don’t think that there’s any way he could set up his victims without watching that broadca…”  His eyes scan the screen as he watches Light walk through the front door of the Yagami household, and he breaks off.  “Your son is home again,” he finishes coolly.

They watch in silence as Light walks up the stairs to his room, sits at his desk, and turns on his desk lamp and the television. From what they can tell, he pages through a large book on his desk, and then settles down to work for a bit. They continue to watch and observe, perhaps Lawliet more carefully than Soichiro – like before, Lawliet can’t bear himself to tear his eyes away from the screen for a moment. Something at the bottom of his stomach pulls towards the screen, sharply, as though something had buried its claws into him and he was dragging him away.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days pass in similar blurs.

 

* * *

 

 

“Over the past few days, I have checked our tapes and video footage many times,” Lawliet says carefully to the task force at their next meeting.  He’s crouched on a chair, tucking his legs so that his knees are pulled closer to his chin. He says that this posture assists his deductive abilities – but in reality, it’s simply some sort of entertainment to see the reactions he garners from its implementation. “I have made a decision. Among the Kitamura and Yagami households, no one is suspicious.”

He takes a piece of candy and holds it close to his lips, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches the reactions of the task force members around him.  “I shall remove the cameras and wiretaps,” he murmurs in continuation, noting the relief with which Soichiro sighs, leaning with his elbows onto the table.

“So, in the end…the culprit wasn’t here, huh?” Matsuda says softly, a sort of disappointment evident in his tone. Lawliet notes the bags underneath his eyes, the slight grow of stubble creeping into his jawline; they’re all quite tired, he supposes.

“Don’t lower your guard,” Soichiro cautions almost immediately, sitting up straighter to stare at Matsuda.  “We’re going to narrow down our possibilities once more.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Lawliet mutters, popping the candy into his mouth and deliberately wrapping his tongue around the fingers with which he’d held the treat so as to not leave a bit of it unattended, “I just meant that there wasn’t anything suspicious from what I could see on our footage.” 

_(Nuances.  Living for six hundred years taught him plenty about nuances.)_

“Even if Kira is among them…he wouldn’t give himself away,” he continues carefully, curling his toes against the seat of the chair and biting his lip.  “No. Indeed.  He was killing criminals in the usual fashion, without showing anyone evidence of this.”

Soichiro’s expression twists into a vague sort of horror. “Then you believe one of them might be Kira?”

Lawliet picks up his china cup of coffee and stirs it absently.  “I’d say it’s about a five-percent chance,” he replies evenly, running his eyes over the expressions of the policemen around him.

It was almost certain his mind that Kira was still killing people even while the surveillance cameras were still in place. He’s utterly perplexed about how someone would be capable of accomplishing such a feat – but, at the same time, he’s certain that it’s not beyond his range of ability to discover the trick behind such a feat.  He stares out the window, feeling the rest of the world fade away; the sky hangs on all of them like a blanket, the thickness of the air suitable for the heaviness of the case through which they wade through, the rain like cold tears threatening to splatter on their backs like fallen stars. 

Even if Kira is capable of killing people by wishing death upon them, if he were a normal person, he would have behaved differently or at least changed his facial expression when committing the murders. Light Yagami – from the blurred grain of the video cameras – had done no such thing.  Kira is not among the Yagami household, most detectives would reason; but six hundred years had taught Lawliet that nothing could be completely ruled out in a case such as this one.  If Kira is one of them, one of the Yagami household…

Surely, his psyche must have reached godlike proportions.

His eyes flick up to the chandelier over their heads as the realization dawns on him like a cold shiver that traveled out from his spine to his hands and his legs and his feet. 

Kira, judging sinners without even so much as a change of expression. Lawliet wants to believe that Kira doesn’t veritably exist, and that perhaps this is all a matter of divine judgment – something past what his hands can reasonably grasp for, but surely it would be impossible for a real god to need a name and a face to kill someone. For such a reason, there’s no way that these killings could be divine judgment by God. 

All of this, everything around them – it’s simply nothing more than the actions of someone childish, who must believe he is God. _That’s what this is._

His mind flicks almost involuntarily to the idea of Beyond Birthday – to the idea of someone being able to see someone’s time of death above their heads – but dismisses the possibility almost instantly. It’s entirely ridiculous that his ghost is continuing to haunt him from past the grave; he must ground himself in the present alone.

The mass murderer known as Kira must exist – that much is a fact. 

And he, L Lawliet, will catch him.

That, too, is a fact.

It is his job to see stories to their ends, after all.

Carefully, he sets down his coffee atop its petite plate, watching the reflection of his own raven hair spinning in the liquid like a murky mirror.  He feels vaguely as though he’s pressed with his back against a fence, but he shakes the sentiment away with more thoughts.

He doesn’t suppose Kira will identify or expose himself, even with the cameras in place.  So, what is his next move?

It would be ideal to get Kira himself to confess to his identity, and have him demonstrate how the killings are executed, for lack of a better term. 

But, surely, there was no way he could…

As if on cue, the realization crashes above his head like a wave, chills rippling down his arms and drowning his mind such that he feels he’s unable to breathe.

_(The closest he’s ever come to risking his life…)_

_Human voices wake him, and indeed he drowns._

 

* * *

 

 

The desks at the testing center are scarcely comfortable, but they are sufficient.  Lawliet curls into the back of the chair, feeling – somehow – that something nervous is prickling at his lungs, almost as though he wants to leap from the seat and start running, although to what is uncertain.  So instead of giving life to the ideas implanted in his brain, he curls onto the seat, watching as everyone around him casts sideways glances and leans slightly away as though to move away from him.

One of them – the one directly in front of him – actually turns back around in his seat to look at him, and Lawliet meets his stare unabashedly.  Admittedly, he’s somewhat taken aback when he notices that this student in particular has grey hairs licking at the sides of his temples like some sort of foreshadowing smoke.

To live and to die, so soon…

_To live and to die, for so long…_

No one ever seems to look at Lawliet for too long – within the realm of what is to be expected, the student in front of him quickly turns around, cheekbones flushed bright red.  Perhaps they can sense that there is something vaguely antiquated about Lawliet – that he’s much older, that he’s there for a purpose other than to take the test they had all studied so diligently for.

Exactly five minutes before the test is scheduled to commence, Light Yagami gracefully enters through the door. His footsteps are quiet.

Lawliet glances up quickly enough to recognize him and to catch a sight of his auburn hair – something like fire – standing in stark contrast with the rest of the room, and then bows his head so as to remain relatively undetected. 

He imagines Beyond Birthday laughing over his shoulder with a sort of madness in his mirth; here he is, L Lawliet himself, the greatest detective in the world, taking a basic entrance exam – a peculiarly humbling experience, in some capacity.

He glances up to see that Light has taken a seat, shifting in the chair and shrugging a messenger bag off his shoulder. Even the simple motion seems somehow fluid, as though he’s fluent in the language of movement; perhaps it could be beneficial to contrast strongly with this sort of natural neatness, when they were to engage, as, inevitably, he grimly suspects – they would. A violation of social norms on a casual scale could potentially compel some sort of indignant or otherwise interesting reaction from Light – perhaps.

They begin the test, as assistants pass out answer and question sheets.  From what he can tell, they’re still young; perhaps they haven’t begun aging.  Lawliet doesn’t reach to grab his from them as they distribute the materials; he curls his arms into a knot, crossing them determinedly. He waits for them to lay the papers on the desk, eager to avoid physical contact – an old habit. The trigger for aging, as he’s always known well, is the sensory experience of a touch. 

He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he began to avoid physical contact; perhaps it was something he learned when the first generation of friends and people he’d been close with had passed away.  He never shook hands, he never reached for embraces, he never ventured outside of the ball he curled himself into, and was content to do so.

After a few more moments, they begin to take the test.

Lawliet alternates glances between hastily filling out the paperwork and trying to peer over the rows of students between him and Light, but all he can see are rows full of backs.  If he closes his eyes, he can hear the rustling of papers, an appropriate soundtrack to the racing of his own thoughts. He carefully sits up slightly straighter in his seat, leaning sideways to catch a fuller glimpse of Light, but all he can see is an arm calmly placed at the edge of the desk – indicating that his suspect is in no rush to complete the exam.

How is it possible, Light Yagami, that you could be perfect?  Aren’t you worried, like everyone else?  Or do you have bigger questions to think about?

“You there.  Number one-hundred sixty-two!” a voice says sharply, suddenly, and Lawliet narrows his eyes at the man suddenly angrily pacing down the aisle of desks. They make eye contact, and the other man’s brow furrows with frustration.  “Sit in your seat properly!”

Lawliet raises an eyebrow, and still refuses to move, curling his toes against the edge of the seat, the gesture a vague one of satisfaction – his plan had worked, as this man had drawn attention to him for the peculiar way of sitting.  He looks down at the papers in front of him for a split moment, and then casts his eyes directly forward.

Just as he’d suspected would happen, Light Yagami tilts his head to the left, not looking over his shoulder the entire way – just a bit, to peer over to look at the person he knows only as student number one-hundred sixty-two.  Time freezes as Lawliet stares intently at him, unafraid and unblinking, and amber eyes meet silver. He feels his own shoulders involuntarily tilting forward, curving his spine with the bend of time around them, but his breath is caught his lungs as though the seconds comprising this moment had forbidden him from stirring the moment even with a quick inhale, exhale.

Time seems to shake the world around them so that they are wading through a series of vibrations altering the very balance of the floor underneath their feet and their desks.  Any normal person would look away within the split second that it took to gaze upon the other party, but Lawliet refuses to break his gaze – just the same as if he were still watching videotapes back at headquarters.

Light Yagami doesn’t look away, either, as though he also senses the weight of the anonymity and immensity of the seconds dripping past them from the clock.  The jaws of the world are yawning around them, threatening to swallow them whole – thus is the weight of this case, Lawliet suspects.  Something instinctively whispers to him – Light Yagami is Kira.

_Light Yagami is Kira._

If only Beyond Birthday had told him as much in such explicit terms, when he had been asking for answers.

“Seriously,” said the man to Lawliet, and Lawliet broke the gaze to stare up at him.  He looked as though he were on the verge of seriously injuring himself with the weight of his own frustration; a vein was dangerously close to popping at the corner of his temple.  “Sit in your seat correctly! This is a serious test.”

“Mmm.  I see. Very well,” Lawliet replies, something almost teasing implicit in his voice, but he obliges.  If only he were able to relay that after six hundred years, some things seemed to cease to be meaningful – but that is a sort of personal lesson one can only arrive to if they search for it themselves, indeed.

They continue to take the test. 

Lawliet finishes first of everyone, from what he can tell – when he ventures to leave, he casts a final glance at Light Yagami, who doesn’t look up from the papers, almost as if he were stubborn enough to refuse doing as much on principle.  He resists the urge to run a finger along the side of Light’s desk, just to see what the reaction would be, and so he instead shoves his hands into his pockets and exits the testing center.

_I’ll see you soon, Kira._

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples.

The night after the entrance exams, he’s unchanged. The idea of checking is nothing more than a ridiculous habit; he should prevent himself from such things. He’s more logical than to be ritualistic in such a futile fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s as if he falls into a slumber, between the day of the exams and the day that cherry blossoms start to peel from the sky like soft pink stars waiting to greet them on the streets, falling into their hair and their bones. 

Time passes, but he doesn’t notice.

Quillsh drives him to To-Oh University in the morning in a large, dark limousine, brushing the blossoms out of his hair as they fall overtop of him with unabashed zeal.  “These things are ridiculous,” he mutters with directionless frustration. “They always annoyed me.”

Lawliet is silent on the ride to the entrance ceremony, peering out the window and watching the world rush past him in a blur of vivid imagery toned into darker shades due to the lens of the tinted windows. He hums quietly in the back of his throat so that no one can hear him, absently chewing on his thumb. He pictures the precise shade of Light Yagami’s eyes – amber, with that small fringe of crimson on the edges, a shade that reminds him, to some extent, of Beyond. 

_Light Yagami, I know you’re hiding something. You must be._

It’s as though something that has long been asleep is now curling at the bottom of his head, inching towards his atlas and axis vertebrae – trying to still hold the world together – knowing the very stakes resting on the resolution of this case.

 

* * *

 

 

“And now for our freshman address,” the man at the top of the podium says with a satisfied smile, as he pushes his glasses further atop his nose.  “And for our freshman representative, Light Yagami.”

“Yes,” Lawliet hears Light Yagami call, standing and smoothing out his suit, pulling gently at the edges of his sleeves as he prepares to walk on stage.  Lawliet watches from his seat, observing the precise manner with which Light stands, with completely straight posture that exudes confidence. 

“Likewise, freshman representative Hideki Ryuga,” says the man into the microphone, pausing slightly as though he were vaguely confused. Lawliet smiles slightly and stands from where he crouches on the seat, in his comfortable pale shirt and blue jeans. In addition to contributing to his goal of potentially unsettling and warranting a reaction from the socially well-versed Light, it was comforting to not have to adorn uncomfortable formal clothes; no reason could compel him into venturing to the cramped stiffness of ceremonial attire. 

The crowd whispers as they watch Light walk to the stage, waiting to catch a glimpse of the pop idol Hideki Ryuga – the hums and vibrations stirring the room could’ve been enough to cause Lawliet’s vision to physically blur. 

He feels their eyes on him as he walks to the stage. They see his tennis sneakers, his baggy jeans, the gossamer fabric of his preferred white shirt; they see the way his hair stands in stark contrast to the paleness of his visage and they see the way he hunches over with his hands in his pockets, in a state of perpetually shrugging.  It’s the most he’s ventured into the public eye, and there’s something powerful about being watched by the entire crowd of students at the entrance ceremony.

More importantly, however, he knows that Light recognizes him.  Light sees him.

Lawliet sees Light casting deliberate glances over his shoulder, and knows that the purpose of such glances is to assess his presence – he knows that Light must be flashing backwards to the day of the entrance exams, and surely Light must recognize him.  He did, after all, stand out from everyone else, undoubtedly. Six hundred years had left invisible imprints all over his skin that seemed to set him apart in the minds of everyone around them.

_This is only the beginning._

 

* * *

 

 

Light Yagami’s speech is powerfully rejuvenating; he speaks abundantly of the abstract conceptualization of living, and how it manifests itself in the world around them.  An immense amount of effort is needed from Lawliet to resist rolling his eyes; he’s grown weary of such typical – and often emptily emotional – tropes.

“Life springs renewed into the breath of Spring…” Light says, a radiant smile on his lips as he speaks to the entirety of the freshman class – they seem to hang onto his words, from what Lawliet can observe. His voice is ideal for public speaking, as he seems to masterfully combine the art of informing and entertaining in one fell swoop.

_Light Yagami, you’re too perfect. And isn’t it ironic that you’re speaking of life when you…._

Unbidden, Lawliet pictures Beyond Birthday hanging next to him, on his other side.  He’d laugh about the ceremony, more likely than not, and make some flippant comment about how he could be eating jam rather than staying here.  He might even hold his head back and cackle, in that strangely menacing sort of way that always sent chills down Lawliet’s spine. Maybe he’d whisper some sort of riddle into Lawliet’s ear, and wind up whispering it down his neck, teeth just inches from his skin…

Lawliet starts, jolting forward slightly to break himself from the dangerous thread of thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him; he can’t afford to connect Beyond and Light in his mind, as even he recognizes that the gesture holds the potential for a dangerous amount of personal interference in a case in which he has no room to waver or break in his resolve to be completely and wholly, uncompromisingly analytical in his approach.

The scattered, albeit enthusiastic, applause indicates that Light has finished his speech.  Lawliet glances sideways quickly, just to find that Light is staring back at him with something like curiosity buried in his gaze.  Light nods a little to Lawliet, and Lawliet – smiling somewhat, realizing the danger with which he is dancing, if this man is truly Kira – pulls his speech from the pocket of his jeans, unfolding it carefully but doing nothing to smooth the creases that break the paper into quadrants.

As he reads from the paper, he does so with a certain awareness of where he fits into the spectrum with the rest of the audience. To begin with, he knows his physical appearance is somewhat unsettling, at least to some of them – but, more than that, he takes deliberate care to manufacture his posture, to make his spine stand more starkly against the contrast of Light, who is all sharp crisp edges and carelessly confident smiles. 

It’s been a long while since he spoke publicly with a live audience; he can barely remember the last time he conducted such business, but it was undoubtedly before he became a detective and found himself surrounded by the importance of concealing his true identity.  All of his public appearances are careful disguises, including this scene unraveling from his fingertips – but all anyone else saw was the stark discordance of his physical self.  Perhaps only Quillsh would be able to tell the difference between displays of personality, but even he might find trouble with pinpointing the actual L Lawliet.

The actual L Lawliet lives mostly in his own head, with his body nothing more than a shelf.

He finishes his speech with only part of his brain registering the proceedings; he realizes that he’ll be speaking with Light Yagami within moments.  He hears the man who had been speaking at the beginning – presumably the president of the institution – say, “Thank you…Hideki Ryuga,” and applause fills the air somewhat reluctantly.

Lawliet pulls at his hair, tugging at a section sticking to the back of his neck, while he watches from the corner of his eye as Light bows deeply to the audience.  Within seconds, he sees Light move to exit the stage, and he follows, his throat humming with the words that threaten to spill from his lips; he’s held onto them for so long, after all.

Light crosses the stage, still waving to some members of the audience who seem to be frantically trying to catch his attention, and then descends the stairs.  As soon as the audience’s attention has been directed to the new speaker standing at the podium, Lawliet narrows his eyes at Light’s back and whispers quietly.

“Yagami?” he says softly, watching as Light’s hands clench into fists at his side, almost imperceptibly.  His posture also straightens a centimeter more. “You are the son of Soichiro Yagami, Detective Superintendent of the NPA.  You have a sense of justice which rivals that of your respect for your father.”

Lawliet is certain that as they walk, Light is clenching his teeth, undoubtedly closing his eyes and calculating the reasons for a direct approach to seeking him for conversation.  Naturally, Lawliet’s intention is to unsettle Kira to the point of revealing himself – and there’s a chance that Light could recognize this causation of events from the beginning, but with Light’s face turned away from Lawliet, there is more space than answers than hang between them.

They take their seats directly in the front row, Lawliet moving from his original place so that he can sit next to Light. He crouches atop the chair, bending as though a boulder were placed directly atop his spine and weighed him down. He looks sideways at Light, turning his head so that he’s watching the curve of Light’s jawline, and the way that his neck is a sharp, almost elegant arc, and the way that he’s determinedly gritting his teeth and watching only the things directly in front of them. “You also aim to become a police official…” Lawliet whispers softly so that only the pair of them can hear, “and have helped the police to solve several cases in the past, haven’t you? And you haven’t even begun aging yet. You’re now showing great interest in the Kira case, aren’t you?”

Light is still staring directly ahead, giving no indication that he has even heard Lawliet speak a word.  It’s as though Lawliet is striving to communicate with a marble statue, frozen by time.  “I have faith in your sense of justice and abilities,” Lawliet continues gently, “and if you swear to not tell anyone, I’ll tell you something very important regarding the Kira case.”

At this, Light’s amber eyes flick over to Lawliet, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he whispers back, seemingly suddenly intrigued by Lawliet’s words.  “What is it?”  His voice is as melodic as it sounded from the wiretaps and cameras, if not more so, a quiet and almost musical lilt; Lawliet watches as his eyes close, and one of his fists clenches in his lap.

He turns his head to look at Light, and says evenly:

“I am L.”

Time freezes, and Lawliet watches carefully for every one of Light’s small movements, calculating what the reaction will be. His runs his eyes along Light’s profile from head to toe, waiting to find any bit of shaken uncertainty ripping through his skin as it undoubtedly would, if he were indeed Kira. He leans forward, staring at Light with a deliberately wide-eyed expression, feeling the seconds twist and fall from his skin like he’s melting into dust – either falling to dust or being pushed into being dust. 

Perhaps Light feels the same way. Lawliet sees his eyes widen, can almost feel the breath from his lungs screaming to the outside, although for what reason is naturally uncertain.  Almost as if overcome with something inexplicably powerful, Light closes his eyes and places his hands carefully atop his legs; Lawliet cannot help but wonder, if he ran his fingertips overtop of Light’s, if he would find that his suspect was shaking.  The thought remains vaguely in equal parts intriguing and unsettling, and so he turns to face the front of the stage, dismissing the thoughts quickly and raising a finger to his lips.

After a moment, Light breaks the silence. “If you are who you say you are,” he says softly, “then you have nothing but my respect and admiration.”

“Thank you,” Lawliet counters quickly, registering the calm and formal way with which Light speaks.  “The reason I chose to reveal my identity to you is because I think you may be of some help to us on the Kira investigation.”

All the while, as his thoughts are racing, he cannot help but wonder how, if Light Yagami is Kira, he’s managing to remain calm with such a perfect façade.  If he truly were Kira, nothing would put more pressure on him than this scenario – it’s inconceivable that he would retain all sensibility without any shock or outrage coloring his persona.  The probability that he is Kira is just under five percent – but out of everyone that they watched in the investigation, Lawliet feels something pulling him towards Light. He senses something important that lies just beneath the skin, something he’s missing.  All of the concrete evidence should indicate that he has no reason to suspect anyone in the Yagami household, but something whispers to him that he is still not wrong.

They watch the rest of the entrance ceremony in complete silence, but Lawliet’s mind is buzzing as though he had never been closer to discovering the actuality of mystery.

 

* * *

 

 

At the end, they remain seated longer than anyone else, like there’s something chaining them to where they sit; after all, Lawliet is wholly unwilling to let Light out of his line of vision. But when Light stands, Lawliet stands, too, and they walk outside of the auditorium into the bright, sunlit makeshift garden of cherry blossms.

“Hey, Light,” he says quietly, almost shyly, his voice morphing into something more mild than what it had been earlier, when he’d introduced his pseudonym.  He is quite adept at manipulating his voice – six hundred years of practice had graced him with enough time to perfect such things.  “It was, uh…it was nice meeting you.”  He shifts so that he’s fixating Light with his gaze, widening his eyes in a supposedly innocent gesture.  It’s a look he’s accustomed to adorning, accompanied by the unassuming posture of someone relatively awkward with reaching out to speak to people.

Light seems somewhat startled at first, as though the softness of Lawliet’s voice catches him off guard – but his face almost instantly hardens into the same expression from earlier, his eyes narrowing and a small, secretive smile crossing his lips.  “No, the pleasure is all mine,” he returns, his voice almost seductive – and it’s unmistakably the voice of someone who is well accustomed to charming his audience. 

Light Yagami holds out a hand.

In every other circumstance that he can remember, Lawliet has refused physical contact with those around him.  His preferred gesture is that of bowing, and his hands almost perpetually reside in the pockets of his jeans; he shrugs into himself, almost imploding from what others can see, blending into the subtleties of his own shadow.

But in this moment, something calls to him that he should shake Light’s hand.

He frowns slightly, gazing at the smooth lines of Light’s skin, casting a glance at the amber eyes staring expectantly at him as cherry blossoms fall around them like stars.  For, in a minute, there is always time for decisions and for revisions, that every other moment could reverse – none of it was anything different from any other moment. 

Surely, one handshake couldn’t end his life. He was speaking with his suspect in the Kira investigation, after all – and that was the riskiest thing he’d done in six centuries.

L Lawliet reaches out and grabs Light Yagami’s hand in a careful gesture.

Light’s skin is smooth and cool to the touch, and their eyes meet in a split moment.  Lawliet can’t bring himself to look away, as though he’s staring over the edge of some precipice, but Light, unexpectedly, almost instantly casts his gaze to the ground to stare over his shoulder.

“Nice to meet you… _Hideki Ryuga_ ,” he mutters, a smile implicit in the words, and drops Lawliet’s hand.  Lawliet nods slightly, bowing his head a bit in Light’s direction – he finds that he is at an abrupt loss for words, but it suits him well enough at least in the vivacity of the moment.

At the precise moment they look away from one another, Lawliet catches sight of the same car in which Quillsh had driven him earlier. Quillsh, apparently seeing Lawliet in the same instant, steers closer to where they stand, and within a matter of moments is outside of the car, pulling a side door open for Lawliet.

“Goodbye, _Light Yagami,_ ” Lawliet says softly, as he climbs into the back of the vehicle.  He wholly ignores the gasps and whispers of the crowd gathering around them to stare at the vehicle, which he supposes is the sort of car that garners envious attention; he instead watches Light, who casts one glance at him, nods briefly, and walks away as if distracted.

He’s relived when the car door closes and he finds himself in silence, the darkness of the interior surrounding him like a shelter.

He still feels Light’s skin in his palm, and he stares at his own hand, perplexed by something intangible.

 

* * *

 

 

When he returns to his hotel room, for the first time in a very long time, all Lawliet wants to do is sleep.

He curls into the sheets, tracing a finger along the softness of the fabric, tuning out the entirety of the world as he falls into unconsciousness.

No one attempts to wake him. 

 

* * *

 

 

When he dreams, he hears Beyond Birthday, and feels the peculiarity of someone’s lips on his neck, but it’s all rather abstract.

“I told you,” he hears Beyond whisper in that teasing giggle he always emitted when he retained a secret that no one else was graced with knowing.  “I told you.”

“Mmm.  Told me what?” Lawliet says mildly, unamused and wholly fatigued of Beyond’s games.

“You’ll see.”

As if on cue, a graveyard materializes around them, and yawns around them.  Peculiarly, the setting is outlined by miles and miles of fencing; the gravestones are pure marble and untouched by decay, so they are perfectly white like unnatural bones. Around them spin leaves falling from thin trees like skeletons, almost like sinister cherry blossoms.

“Tell me about the Kira case,” Lawliet demands, dismissive of the world around them.

“This is all you need to know,” says Beyond.

Lawliet spins around, and when he looks up, he sees Light Yagami, instead of his old nemesis.  There are wings, seemingly crafted from stone, protruding from Light’s back – his skin is covered in what appear to be bullet holes as he stands against the fence, a sort of fear in his eyes.

Lawliet looks down at his own hands, and sees – beyond all comprehension – his hands are crumbling into dust, like someone had chewed him up and spit him out only to watch him dissolve.

He wants to scream, but knows no one would hear him.

_Is it possible this is all real...?_

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes from the nightmare with a start, his eyes flying open with surprise, Lawliet looks at the clock alongside the bed. From what he can tell, it reads…one in the afternoon. 

He had slept through the entirety of the afternoon prior, as well as the evening and half the day. He had only rarely ever fallen prey to such sort of restfulness, which could account for some of the lucidity of his dreams.

He stretches on the bed, and then stands to move to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t important to him, really, but every night before he attempts to fall asleep for a few hours, Lawliet checks his skin, and the hair at his temples.

Since he had forgotten to, before he fell asleep after the entrance ceremony, he sighs deeply and pushes the hair back from the side of his face and his jaw to peer carefully at the side of his hairline, where he supposed he’d find any grey hairs, if they were to appear.

He’s nearly caught off guard by the sight of his own eyes, which – despite the additional sleep – appear even more fatigued than usual, but he adorns his temples with enough attention just to notice, even though it almost escapes him –

He freezes. 

Fear – or perhaps time – paralyzes him.

He leans closer to the mirror, straightening his back, blinking quickly to clear his eyes - peers even more closely.

He can hear his own heart throbbing in his ears, and he almost doesn’t trust his own eyes, even though he knows he’s never wrong.

But…

There it is.

A single grey hair, close to the precise spot where Beyond had kissed him – close to his ear – in his dream, a single hair nearly lost in the sea of dark and sharp patterns that stands up in all sorts of strange angles from his ungraceful period of sleep.

It can’t be.

It surely cannot be…

It must have been…

His thoughts blur and race so closely to him that he feels as though he might faint from the mix of fear and confusion glowing underneath his skin.

In the end, he has only one name on his lips.

_Light Yagami._

His clock is unfrozen.

Time begins, and L Lawliet is certain he’s going to drown.


	8. Like a Patient Etherized Upon a Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll go back to To-Oh the next day, and meet Light Yagami there. He’ll attempt to conduct a rudimentary profile of Light’s character, and assess the overt likelihood that Light is Kira.  
> Along the same lines, he’ll attempt to see if Light has arrived at the same conclusion that he has.  
> If he’s noticed – that he’s started to age.  
> If he’s noticed that their promises to hunt each other down and eliminate the other are truer than ever intended. If such promises are, in fact, as damned and true as involuntary wedding vows.

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_   
_The muttering retreats_   
_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_   
_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_   
_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_   
_Of insidious intent_

 

 

All around him, stained glass.  The lights filtering in are all different shades and so they twist like they’re part of some good-humored dance, bright and sick and menacing in all of the most gentle ways.  He lifts his hand and sees it cast into deep blue, and when he gazes at the ceiling he’s almost overwhelmed by the way the dome leans over him while bending its arch against the sky.  If he squints, the outer edges of the dizzying circle strongly resemble the sharp bones of the fence surrounding Wammy’s House, but it’s possible that he’s merely hallucinating and seeing only what he wants to see, so he grabs his own wrist – hard – and doesn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

His earliest memory is a vague one. He remembers, hazily, the feeling of hands on his hair from either his mother or his father as he curled in their lap, burying his eyes into the soft fabric of their clothing and shielding his face from anything bright.  He remembers soft laughter, the high-pitched unbridled voice of love as it pours over him and manifests itself in those hands protecting him.

In life, he’d barely been touched.

His first memory is rare not only for its novelty but for its singularity.

 

* * *

 

 

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you know it’s ending.

It’s as though the mirror melts in front of Lawliet, when he leans closer and closer into the reflection, grabbing at the grey hair on his temple and yet remaining careful not to tug it from its roots. It’s possible, he rationalizes, that it’s merely an accident – that the pillow he’d slept on had had some old paint or some dust on it that stuck to his head, or that there was some other rational explanation for why there was this small bit of silver filtering in through the dark web of hair messily strewn on his shoulders.

He remembers the first time someone had ever taken a photograph of him back in England, how it felt to gaze upon himself and see that unchanging bit of eternity gripping at his skin and muscles. His eyes were starting to become hollow, back then, shedding the brightness and trading it for the kind of wistfulness he was all too glad to ignore.  He was certain that hundreds of years in the future, the photograph would remain the same. Physically, he had always been the same – but it hadn’t changed the fact his spine bent a little more every day, his eyes widening with what he had refused to label as emptiness.

All of such thoughts and more race through his mind as he stares into the mirror, as though it seems his body is abruptly foreign to him, his brain even more so – like all it took was one shot of poison from a stranger to make him forget himself.

But no.

L Lawliet must think rationally.

 

* * *

 

 

He swallows the fear that pulses close to the surface of his skin, and breathes.

He decides to think medically, as calmly as he can, calculating with cold indifference as though he were examining a suspect rather than the workings of his own apparent mortality. His eyes narrow at the mirror. It’s as though he’s dealing with a hypothetical situation rather than a veritable one.

The only person he’d touched within the last half a century was Light Yagami.  It seemed rather impossible that the onset of aging could arise so quickly, but it was a viable possibility, as Lawliet knew well.  Initial signs of aging could manifest themselves within a few days, that’s what he’s always been told – and thus, observed – all along. Soon, if all of this were a reality, he would see even more grey hairs.  Eventually his skin would start to bunch, his limbs would become heavy with the weight of gravity, and – surely enough – he would die.

The sheer phenomenon of his longevity compels him to question this basic fact, one he’s known since the earliest stages of his education.  He’s lived this long, unchanged – it’s near impossible that he would be able to be able to die at all, certainly.  He had always known his soulmate had died years before he was able to reach them, simply came and went passing through the world without his knowledge, perhaps even killing themselves because the endurance of the waiting was too powerful. Life teaches him that this is the first step, that meeting a soulmate is the first step, and that eventually he would die.

And so would Light Yagami.

Light Yagami…

Light, who is Kira.

His suspect – his only suspect – for the most perilous and prolific case he’d explored in the entire duration of his life, is his soulmate.

The realization causes Lawliet to stumble backwards until he’s pressed against the wall like invisible hands are shoving his chest, his breath coming in quick gasps.

 

* * *

 

 

The realization dawns on him, fully and unabashedly.

Six hundred years.  He hadn’t spent the entirety of it merely waiting in distress for someone to appear for him, but he had hoped that if he were going to find someone, they’d be worth dying for.  Perhaps someone as clever as Naomi, or someone sharp who had something at least vaguely resembling a well-developed worldview to guide them.

Not Kira.  Not Light Yagami – immature, childish, the one who was growing into the world, aggressively naïve, with some sort of power allowing him to kill mass amounts of criminals.  Lawliet isn’t certain what’s worse: the presence of such a being as Kira to begin with, or the fact that he’s unwittingly nothing more than another one of Light Yagami’s victims. 

Another casualty resulting from nothing more than a simple handshake – another casualty dealing with the heart, except that his pain is drawn out instead of spurred quickly by a sudden clenching of the chest.

Lawliet falls to the ground, slumping against the wall and leaning into the floor, in some part wishing it could swallow him whole. Overcome with frustration, he digs his fist into the ground and slams it over and over again, repeatedly, ignoring the redness that pools at the curves of his knuckles. “Damn you,” he mutters through clenched teeth, again and again, until he fades into a whisper and turns his hands to his own temples and rips at his scalp without tearing any hair out.

He considers ironic that Kira – for there is no mistake that Light Yagami is Kira – will be the death of him, just the same as Beyond Birthday.  Just the same as if he were a criminal, and not the greatest detective the world had ever known. Perhaps he should amend his title to encompass something like – the world’s greatest tragedy, he thinks bitterly as he grits his teeth against the disgust and anger threatening to spill from his tongue.

 

* * *

 

 

When the Kira case first began, an abundance of the team had left in fear of their lives, worried that Kira would kill them simply on the principle that they were trying to catch him.  They didn’t want to be executed.

And now he, now Lawliet…

Kira had condemned Lawliet to death, but not in the way that he had likely initially intended.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d have, at most, fifty years left to live, provided he wasn’t killed before the end of that time.

He wonders, with only a vague and angry shadow of awareness, if Light has noticed any of the physical changes yet.

And what will change, once he does.

 

* * *

 

 

Having a soulmate didn’t mean he was going to fall in love.

Having a soulmate didn’t mean he was going to stop the Kira case.

He is going to catch Kira and condemn him for his crimes, no matter the cost.  He isn’t going to let one of the last cases of his life slip between his fingers just because some bright-eyed, juvenile self-appointed vigilante is his One.

This changes nothing. 

It changes nothing.

He tells himself such things over and over again, until he can no longer see straight and his hands are blurred from the way his vision shakes, the slow curve of his knuckles against the floor. The blood in his ears reminds him that the air around him is now a poison, and every heartbeat brings him closer to death. 

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly, he stands from lying on the floor and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

As before, he knows, the goal is to get closer to Light, so as to investigate and ensure that he is – beyond any trace of doubt – Kira. He won’t let any sort of emotional obstacles detract him from reaching such a goal.

If he’s going to die, so be it.

He’s not going to lose Kira’s game.

 

* * *

 

 

He’ll go back to To-Oh the next day, and meet Light Yagami there.  He’ll attempt to conduct a rudimentary profile of Light’s character, and assess the overt likelihood that Light is Kira.

Along the same lines, he’ll attempt to see if Light has arrived at the same conclusion that he has.

If he’s noticed – that he’s started to age.

If he’s noticed that their promises to hunt each other down and eliminate the other are truer than ever intended. If such promises are, in fact, as damned and true as involuntary wedding vows.

 

* * *

 

 

He spends the rest of the day perched on a chair at the desk in the room, not thinking about the way that he instinctively feels the need to pull hair from the sides of his temples to eliminate the evidence of the crime his body is pushing onto him, or check that his skin is still smooth. He presses a thumb to his lips and mentally sifts through the evidence in the Kira case, wishing he still had security tapes to flip through.  Soon, he’ll be speaking with Soichiro and the others again; perhaps after tomorrow.

Perhaps he’ll attempt to conceal the aging for as long as he can, knowing what the others would say and think if they knew Lawliet’s connection to the prime suspect of the case.  Perhaps he’ll tell Quillsh; eventually, they’ll have to inform everyone back at Wammy’s House…

Having successors will finally serve a veritable purpose, a thought he considers ironic given that not so long ago, he had been standing in the bare bones of that desolate graveyard, lowering Damir and his One into the casket and wondering what was the point of any of it.

He wonders if, when he dies, they’ll write him into a statistic – L Lawliet, another one of Kira’s victims.  He feels something widening and gaping inside of his chest, but he ignores it.  He’s never been one to succumb to ridiculous sentiments, and this – this, it changes nothing.

He’s writing his own obituary with actions rather than words.  At the top of his tombstone – _saved the world from Kira._

 

* * *

 

 

He spends the evening alone, listlessly quiet and from all external accounts doing simply nothing.  It isn’t until the next day in the car, as Quillsh drives Lawliet back to To-Oh University, that he says anything at all.

“ _Watari_ ,” he says quietly, and he only has to say the name for Quillsh to peer into the backseat, his brow furrowing almost immediately.

“What is it?” Quillsh replies, his voice even and his glasses glinting with the shine of the sunlight pouring into the windows as he watches Lawliet curled carefully on the seat with knees tucked close to chin. “What’s wrong?”

_Well.  I may as well confess now._

Lawliet, never one for sugarcoating factual information, cites the words once in his head and then dares to speak aloud.

“I believe I found a grey hair.  It started," he says mildly.

It isn’t until he says the words that he notes objectively the way that the blood rushes in his ears, feeling it pool around his cheekbones.

Quillsh’s expression remains stoic, but when he speaks his voice wavers.  “Who?” is all he whispers, and Lawliet can see the way his hands grip the steering wheel.

His knuckles are bleached white.

“That’s the trick,” Lawliet says, almost boredly, turning to stare out the window as buildings rush past them like they’re in fear and running for their lives.  The world is a blur.  “It’s Light Yagami. I shook his hand at the entrance ceremony.”

A pause, one heavy as though it's filled and bogged down by the weight of the sins pressed against Lawliet's back.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“There’s no one else it could be.”

Quillsh breathes deeply and lifts a hand from the wheel to run a hand across his forehead, as though at a loss.  He opens his mouth to speak and then quickly closes it, as though he’s thinking better of announcing what plagues his mind, and yet he can’t help but blurt what the pair is undoubtedly thinking.

“You were careless.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“The case…”

“I know, Watari.”

“What are the chances?”

“I’m well aware.”  The atmosphere of the car is suddenly thickened when Lawliet notices that Quillsh’s eyes are squinting - more accurately, he observes, they're faintly and suddenly pink, but they both ignore it.  “From now on, it’s your job to safeguard the world with the other letters.”

“You know that none of them can replace you.”

_L Lawliet – the last one, the lost one._

“Do what you must.  Begin to restructure Wammy’s House.  Train them more carefully.  Nate…”

Lawliet trails off.

He’s careful to not mention Mihael and Mail. He's in the same boat as them now.

He’s not unobservant of the way Quillsh seems to become heavier hearted with every bit the wheel moves, but he’s incapable of addressing it.

Quillsh doesn’t speak at first, at least for a few moments. “We’re almost here,” he says evenly, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.  “You expect to find Yagami here?”

“He should be at the tennis courts,” Lawliet replies quickly, ignoring the way his heart picked up a beat at the mention of the name. He needed to train himself to ignore such things.  “They’re open today, and you’ll recollect he was a junior champion years ago, as we found through our research. He should be there, predictably, to practice.  I intend to approach him.”

“What are you going to do?” Quillsh says, biting his lip as he glances in the mirror to cast a deliberate glance at the back seat. “Are you going to tell him? Or continue to work the case…? And if Soichiro…”

“I know, Watari.”  He’s acting unafraid, just the same as always. “I’m going to conceal the effects for as long as possible.  We’ll monitor Light closely to find when he discovers it.  I suppose it’s possible he’ll think we slipped him an aging catalyst, or something of the sort… We’ll deal with it when the matter arises.”

Time slows, and the seconds churn like waves crashing on the shoreline - seemingly relentless and refusing to allude to an end, but somehow simultaneously final.  

“We’re here,” Quillsh says abruptly, hitting the brakes perhaps a bit too hard, and Lawliet leans forward with the force of the stop, his hair falling around his face like a curtain.  Quillsh, in turn, quickly exits the car and races to the side to open the back door. 

The first thing Lawliet notices when he steps outside, old tennis shoes curling onto the pavement softly, is how the cherry blossoms are falling harder than ever in the parking lot; it’s as though there’s a sea of them that melts from the ground upwards rather than from the heavens to the earth.  He blinks and shrugs his shoulders so that his spine is bent forwards like usual, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets in an assuming gesture.

Abruptly, Quillsh bows to him and without another word, steps back to the driver’s seat of the vehicle.  Lawliet casts a glance after him but cannot bring himself to find any meaning in saying even another word, so he instead looks over at the tennis courts, which are barely humming with only a small crowd gathered to watch some players engage. 

He begins to wade over to the space, and easily spots Light Yagami standing on the sidelines, just as predicted. He’s relatively tall, but his visibility radiates from something even stronger – perhaps it’s his confidence, or the way he walks.  The sun bleaches his hair to be a brighter, almost burnt red hue; he’s wearing a simple polo shirt and shorts.  Lawliet’s mind quickly processes everything noticeable about him, filing it into categories to reexamine when necessary.

Aside from the analytical processing that dominates his brain, something small whispers in the back of Lawliet’s mind –

 _That’s your One.  He’s your One_.

Almost unconsciously, he grits his teeth. Light Yagami may have caused him to start aging, but he’d never be Lawliet’s _One_.  Not like that.

When he’s almost at the tennis courts, Light Yagami – perhaps instinctively, perhaps accidentally – looks over and catches Lawliet’s gaze. Light’s eyes narrow instinctively for a split moment – one that passes between the two of them and then darts away, fleeting and gun-shy – an expression that passes quickly to make room for a smile with lips pressed thin together.  Light waves his hand, beckoning for Lawliet to join him, and Lawliet ignores the way his breath quickens against his will. It’s as though someone reached into his chest and prodded his heart until it started beating quickly enough to suit the will of some ungodly deity, simply to use him as a puppet. He fights to fix his expression into something neutral and uncaring.

“Ryuga!” Light calls, his voice unusually cheery as Lawliet walks, slumped over, onto the side of the court. “You’re here to play tennis, I assume?” He sweeps a hand across his forehead, pushing his bangs away from his face. Lawliet strains to catch a glimpse of the roots of his hair at his temples, but he cannot tell easily. They’re too far apart from each other, and the sun is shining too brightly to lend itself to proper investigation.

“Ah.  Yes, indeed, I am,” Lawliet replies smoothly.  “Although it would appear I neglected to bring a racquet of my own. May I borrow one?” He shrugs his shoulders, barely perceptibly, his hands knotting into fists in his pockets. 

“Certainly.  Hey, would you like to play a round or two?” Light asks, flashing him a dazzling smile, his eyes sparkling.

“It would be my honor,” says Lawliet evenly, his voice a monotone. “It’ll provide an excellent opportunity to get to know each other better.”  He absentmindedly twists his fingers around his wrist, refusing to allow himself to feel panicked by the relentless whispers in his head – _mortal, mortal, mortal._ The man standing in front of him, dressed nonchalantly in a tennis uniform, may as well be the grim reaper.

Light nods, cheerful, as he hands a racquet to Lawliet. “Although I must say, I’m surprised to see you here,” he says mildly.  “I had no idea that you were interested in tennis.”

“Ah…yes, Yagami,” Lawliet says, and they begin to pace towards one of the open courts.  “I was once the British Junior Champion.”

A brief pause.

“Ah! Ryuga,” Light prompts gracefully, “were you raised in Britain?”  There’s a smile implicit in his voice, and Lawliet fights dizziness as Light walks a bit closer to him and accidentally brushes his arm.  Keeping a level head is the most necessary facet of the investigation, as he’s well aware, but he’s distractingly conscious of the way Light moves. He’s unsure if the way his head is clouded either slows or quickens his deductive skills, but it’s futile to ask himself as much given that the very quality of the cloudiness itself perplexes him.

“I lived in Britain for a few years, yes,” Lawliet muses, internally amused by the secret of precisely how many years he’d occupied himself in Britain.  “But don’t worry.  There’s nothing in that fact that can reveal L’s identity.”

Beside him, Lawliet feels Light stiffen slightly and turn his head in the other direction. Lawliet himself turns himself away from the hypnotic movement of Light’s steps and gazes at the cherry blossoms as they rain from the trees.  A few have landed on the side of the courts, and a few are pressed against the sides of the fences surrounding the area with their backs against the surface as though they’re under fire. 

He imagines Beyond Birthday pacing along with them, tugging at the sleeves of Lawliet’s shirt and giggling stupidly, dragging his feet along the ground and laughing.  “That’s your One, Lawliet?” he’d say with a smirk.  “He’s too pretty for you, I think.  But, him…the greatest criminal in the world?  I don’t think so.  To think you’d die for this guy?  What a waste…”

_I know.  You would’ve wanted it to be you._

“Hey,” a referee calls to them as they pass to occupy a court.  “You’re going to play, right?”

“That’s right,” Light calls back, glancing over and smiling briefly at Lawliet, who unconsciously clenches his fists in response.  He's unsure if he's angry, or perhaps awed in a morbid sense.

“You know the rules, right?” the referee says. “The first to win a set or six games, wins the game.”

Lawliet just stares at him, gazing at the stark contrast of the figure seated on the elevated seat crisply outlined against the clear blue of the sky.  He and Light walk to their places, ready to begin.  He’d certainly had a lot of time to practice tennis, and he’d played many games in his lifetime – but this one had more resting on it than any of its predecessors.

“Here,” Light says at the last moment, and he reaches out to place a hand on Lawliet’s shoulder.  Lawliet flinches slightly, surprised at the contact – physical contact between loose acquaintances isn’t particularly customary in Japan, and his eyes widen as he stares back at Light. 

Does he know?

“Take this,” Light prompts, handing the tennis ball to Lawliet.  “You serve first.” His amber eyes appear to search Lawliet’s with a nameless curiosity, but he quickly turns away to look at the crowd that seems to be building quickly around the court.  Lawliet quickly paces to the opposite side, carelessly tossing the ball into the air and catching it multiple times in a row before taking his proper position at his end of the space. 

 _This isn’t a test to find if Light is Kira,_ he supposes. _Just a friendly game of tennis._

_But Kira hates to lose._

Abruptly, he tosses the ball into the air and spins his racquet into an aggressive serve.  It flies across the court, slicing through the space between them; Light misses the shot and casts Lawliet a quick glance of what appears to be shock that rapidly hardens into something more determined.

“Hey, there, Ryuga,” Light calls across, his eyes lighting up with a sort of appreciation.  “You’re serious right from the start!”  He laughs, and it sounds like bells. 

Lawliet’s stomach flips unexpectedly, as Light’s voice compels him to think of something that leaves him vaguely homesick. The sound of church bells calling out into the morning, the taste of a crisp apple at the beginning of autumn, the spinning of stained glass in empty pews.  “The person who makes the first move wins,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging and dismissively brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, wholly ignoring his thoughts.

He should be angrier, really.  He had been, when he first found, in the mirror, the grey hair.  But, along those lines, he never had been one for analyzing feelings, or dwelling on them for too long.  These were the cards he’d been dealt, and now he had to handle the situation as calmly as he had for six hundred years.

He doesn’t question himself, or the contents of his sentiments regarding Light or the case, for too long.  All that mattered was concrete evidence.

 

They’re well-matched opponents, Lawliet must concede, as though they’d been crafted to play against one another.

Only minutes after the first serve, they’re darting across the space, blatantly running to keep up with each shot they return to one other. Light is visibly growing fatigued from the endeavor, his hair slightly ruffled and his clothes a bit disheveled, as Lawliet notes from he opposite end of the court – but if it’s true he’s tired, he doesn’t allow it to affect the way he plays.

Lawliet competes defensively, for the greater part of the experience, but their engagement demonstrates a balanced dynamic from what he can deduce.  Other pairs, as well as a steadily growing group of spectators, have stopped to watch the match ongoing between Lawliet and Light.  Perhaps they remembered the mismatched pair from the entrance ceremony and made the connection.

But Lawliet refuses to linger neither on the memory of the entrance ceremony, nor on the morbid principle that time now holds relevance to him that it never held before – he allows himself only to think of Light’s relation to the Kira case. 

 _Don’t worry, Yagami,_ he thinks carefully, _Kira hates to lose, but… Most people don’t like to lose.  It’s not just Kira._

Six hundred years had taught him as much.

Perhaps it’s his imagination, but he senses – as they spar back and forth – that Light hasn’t completely sought to win. It’s more as though they’re hanging in a balance, with something formidable between them. He watches Light grit his teeth and swing the racquet, returning the ball to Lawliet’s side of the court with deliberate strength.  Lawliet returns evenly, refusing to allow himself to register the way that Light stands makes him feel something odd in his stomach, like he’s being pulled in that direction.

_He has to know.  Does he know?  He has to know._

The ball is returned more quickly than he expects, and it slips out of the reach of Lawliet’s racquet.  He lowers his eyes to the ground, watching as the ball slices smugly across the air and crashes against the fence behind them. He looks back and sees Light smiling, the sight enough to compel him to lose his breath for a moment.

_You went in for the win, just now._

“Game count, four games all,” calls the referee, resting his hands on his thighs as he peers forward to watch the pair of them.

It’s Lawliet’s serve next.  He tosses the ball into the air and casts it away from him all in one even breath.

He can read Light Yagami’s feelings, he’s certain of it – by playing tennis with him, Light will be compelled into thinking that Lawliet is preparing to take a step closer and deepen their relationship. In such an event, Light would be put in a position through which he could potentially reveal his identity as Kira – or reveal if he knows about the aging…

He returns the ball into Light’s court, barely feeling his feet as he darts forward.  It’s almost certain that in the case they were to become closer, Light would ask for some proof so as to know he could trust Lawliet, compelling Lawliet to reveal details about the Kira case.

He watches as Light hits the ball with equal vigor and clenches his jaw.  Lawliet ignores the way his stomach twists, and instead focuses on the knowledge – beyond any trace of doubt – that what Light is going to want from him can be nothing other than…

_...Going to task force headquarters, so that Light could potentially receive confirmation from a third party that Lawliet is the real L._

He watches as Light seems to grow more aggressive within a split moment, narrowing his eyes as he watches the ball and taking more dramatic steps forward.  When he swings at the ball, his strength seems unparalleled, and Lawliet is almost stunned by the sight.  It’s no surprise when, subsequently, it races underneath Lawliet’s racquet…

…And Light is declared the winner of the match.

“Game set!” calls the referee, raising a hand. “Won by Yagami. Six games to four!”

Lawliet smiles a little.

_If it’s a game you want, it’s a game you’ll get, Yagami._

 

* * *

 

 

After the match, Lawliet waits outside for Light to change in the gym’s locker rooms.  He stands underneath the cherry blossom trees, brushing them away as they fall into the dark mop of his hair and rest before slipping onto his neck and the creases of his elbows in front of the sleeves pushed to his forearms, kissing his skin softly. 

Light has given no indication that he’s aware of having begun to age.  Perhaps he wouldn’t notice, if there were only one hair that had been bleached grey – perhaps, even when he does notice, he’ll not assume the cause of his demise could be attributed to Lawliet. 

Or perhaps he’s known the whole time, and simply played as though he weren’t aware of the fact they were intended to be bound together.

Lawliet feels the world becoming more complex with every breath.  He cannot afford to become involved in such a way, but he’s getting sucked into a void he can’t escape.

He knows what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

 

“As expected of you, I lost,” Lawliet says abruptly to Light as they walk through the aisle between buildings, cherry blossom trees spanning on either side of them and the stone walkway lending stories to their feet.

“Ryuga, it’s been a while since I played seriously,” Light returns, his voice even and masking a slight laugh. “But, you know, now that I think of it… I’m thirsty.  And I have something I want to ask you, so do you want to go grab a drink?”

Lawliet presses his lips into a thin line, shrugging his hands into his pockets.  “I’ve lost the game, so I’ll tell you whatever I can,” he says in reply, his voice soft as he glances at Light.  “But before that, I have something I must tell you.”

“What is it?” Light asks gently, raising his eyebrows as he peers at Lawliet between the blossoms falling in the space spanning them.

Lawliet stares unabashedly back and refuses to break the contact between them, neglecting the faint nerves aching at the corner of his consciousness as he feels the abrupt need to, somehow, touch Light.

“Yagami,” he says, a bit too loudly as though he’s also seeking to speak overtop of the narrative building in his mind, “I suspect that you are Kira.  If you still want to ask me anything...go ahead.”

Light abruptly stops in the middle of the walkway, tilting his head to the side.  “I’m Kira?” he asks innocently, watching as Lawliet stops a few paces in front of him and turns back.

“Well, even though I say I suspect you, it’s only a one-percent possibility,” Lawliet replies, a hint of slyness coating his words. “Leaving that aside, once I’m sure that you aren’t Kira and because you have sharp reasoning abilities, I’d like for you to work with me on this investigation.”

_This way, Light Yagami, you’ll know I suspect you at least a bit.  And you won’t ask to meet someone from task force._

_Your move._

When he turns a little to peer over his shoulder, Light’s expression is blank as usual, even as they continue walking – but he knows instinctively that this means nothing.  And he’s more than capable of ignoring the overwhelming urge to pace closer to Light, and to somehow rest in that closeness – it means nothing to him. 

 

* * *

 

 

“This coffee shop is one of my favorites,” Light says mildly, staring expectantly at Lawliet from across the table. “If we sit here, there’s no chance of anyone overhearing us.”

“Ah… Yes.  I agree. This is a nice spot,” Lawliet replies, his voice along with his words falling somewhat flat. His mind is awhirl; if he were anyone other than himself, and if Light were anyone other than himself, too, any outsider could consider this a date.   _Or, perhaps that's his paranoia speaking._  He imagines Beyond Birthday’s sinister laugh at the precise idea.

“We don’t have to worry about how you sit, here, either,” Light adds, a small smirk flitting across his lips as he leans back and crosses his arms to anticipate Lawliet’s reaction.

Somewhat indignant, Lawliet removes a finger from his lips and frowns at Light.  “I have to sit like this,” he says softly.  “If I sit normally, my reasoning skills drop by forty percent.” At the same time as he speaks, he tries to peer at the sides of Light’s head, attempting to see if the roots of his hair are shaded with any silver – or if it’s all just a terrible accident.

“So, ah… What did you intend to ask me?”

“Oh.  Yes,” Light murmurs, and he lifts his coffee to his mouth, closing his eyes as he sweeps the bitterness of it over his tongue.  When he sets it down, he smiles.  “That can wait until you’re sure that I’m not Kira.  You can talk about whatever you’d like.”

_Ah, yes?  Shall we talk about you and I…?_

_Light Yagami, who are you…?  You’ll have to forgive me – how could I refrain from asking…?_

“Then, excuse me,” Lawliet cuts in abruptly, his eyes widening with a deliberate, crafted mask of innocence.  “But do you mind if I test your deductive skills?”

For his responses will help lead to the answer to the question of his identity – if he’s Kira, indeed.  Lawliet listlessly twists a finger around the stack of empty cream containers, the contents of which he had poured without care into his beverage.  It’s possible that it’s all an attribute of the excitement of the case racing through his veins, but with every moment, he feels himself more drawn to where Light sits – so much so that he catches himself leaning forward unwittingly.

Light sips deeply from his coffee, and then grins. “Sure.  Sounds like fun,” he counters teasingly, a note of seriousness lying at the fringe of the conversation. 

“Then…first.  Take a look at this,” Lawliet murmurs, fishing into his pocket and withdrawing a handful of papers.  He sets them in front of Light, his hand dangerously close to where Light’s arm lies on the table. “These three are pictures of notes that we believe were written by criminals in prison, right before they died, while under Kira’s power.  Please, tell me what you think.”

He can’t see any grey hairs at Light’s temples, but perhaps he isn’t looking closely enough.  Perhaps they haven’t formed yet; perhaps they never would, and Lawliet’s body itself was an abhorrent mistake and his own consciousness was turning on him.

Light delicately handles the photographs, tucking them between his fingers and bringing them closer to his face as he stares more deliberately.  “This is interesting,” he says mildly, unblinking as he examines the papers.

Lawliet, meanwhile, never breaks his gaze from Light’s visage – his eyes are heavily lidded and simply tired, but when he looks at Light, it’s as though something new is tempting him to shake off the fatigue and restlessness that bore into his spine for so many years. He should be angrier, he knows – he should be burning with hate and frustration for the figure in front of him, and he's certain that he is - but he doesn't feel it.

“It would be amazing if Kira could not only inflict death on others, but control his victims’ actions as well,” Light says softly, as he squints at the photographs.  “And there’s a message encoded here, taunting you.”

Light lays the photographs onto the table between them, resting an arm on the table.  “When we rearrange the messages and look at the top letters of each line, they form another sentence,” he says with confidence, as Lawliet watches him. “Rearranging it into a message which makes sense would probably be… ‘L, do you know? Gods of death love apples.’ Even so, there are print numbers on the back, and when we arrange them in that order, we get, ‘L, do you know love apples? Gods of death.’” 

Light glances up at Lawliet, his eyes dancing. “It doesn’t make sense, and it’s hard to think that Kira would have wanted you to read it this way,” Light finishes, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“That’s incorrect,” Lawliet says flatly, his gaze narrowing as he ignores Light’s jaw dropping with surprise, and he shuffles through his pockets to pull yet another piece of paper to lay onto the table. “There are actually four photographs, and when we add this one, it reads… ‘L, do you know? Gods of death who love apples have red hands.’”

Lawliet watches as Light clenches his jaw, visibly. Naturally, the additional message is a falsified one – one crafted for this sole, specific purpose of examining Light’s reaction to the evidence, perhaps tricking him into revealing himself as Kira.  “But even with the three photographs, my deduction was perfect, wasn’t it?” Light says after a moment, raising his eyes, careful, to stare at Lawliet. 

“It wasn’t perfect,” Lawliet returns simply. “The truth is that there are four of them.  It would have been perfect if you’d figured out there was another.”  His toes curl against the cold surface of the café booth. “Yagami, even though you knew the message wasn’t finished, you decided that there were only three notes. You didn’t guess that there was a fourth.  This is also true.”

His fingertips are itching with anticipation, but he’s careful to remain the picture of perfect calm as Light stares back at him. The temptation of compelling Light to reveal himself as Kira is somehow a more exciting game than any other he’s played in six hundred years; perhaps because he knows implicitly that this is a game only the two of them could play, and not a game played from one side alone.

“I hadn’t thought that far,” Light concedes after a moment with a somewhat terse smile.  “Well…whatever the case, it’s not a message that would lead to Kira. You and I both know gods of death don’t exist.”

A moment, fleeting, of imagining Beyond Birthday laughing from his cell, calmly telling Lawliet that the eyes of a god of death, and he knew precisely when everyone was going to die; Lawliet dismissively brushing his hand and staring back at his mirror image with a sort of repulsed intrigue; turning his back and never revisiting even after all those years…

Mihael, running down the hallway at Wammy’s House with tears in his eyes about something Beyond had said that crept down his spine and resonated with such truth that he was incapable of doing anything other than crying…

Gods of death.  Wasn’t Kira himself a god of death, for damning those he judged to an early grave?  And Beyond Birthday, too, for all of his games and his crafting of the ideal crime, with himself as sacrifice?

But Light is a god of death for reasons even beyond the principle of likely being Kira.  Such is the very sort of paradox that simultaneously compels Lawliet to want to reach across the table, anything to shift a bit closer to Light, while fighting the urge to outwardly ask, “You’re Kira.  It must be you.”

Perhaps the concept doesn’t disgust him as much as it could, or as much as it should.

Lawliet bites his lip and leans forward. “Then if you were me,” he says softly, “faced with someone who might be Kira, how would you check if he were Kira?”

“I would try to have him say something that wasn’t broadcast to the public, something only Kira would know,” Light returns, holding his coffee cup close to his lips.  “Exactly what you were doing just now.”

_Mmm.  You are quite intriguing, Light Yagami..._

 “That’s amazing,” Lawliet says, searching Light’s eyes but keeping his own stare entirely blank. “I’ve asked several detectives that same question, but most of them needed a few minutes to answer. And you immediately thought of a scenario in which Kira is talking to the investigator… Your deductive abilities are quite amazing.”

“And, the more impressive my answers, the more of a suspect I become, it seems.”  Light sips deeply from his coffee, exuding nothing but nonchalance as he leaves the statement hanging as something of a challenge.

“Ah, yes.  By about three percent,” Lawliet drawls, bowing his head slightly. “But in that respect, it’s made me more determined to…work with you.  Even if you are Kira, I would like for us to work together on this investigation. …Do you know why?”

His heart is racing perceptibly faster, and he can feel the blood rushing in his wrists as he hangs in the balance of the moments. He notices for the first time that Light is wearing a watch, and he almost smiles.

“Of course,” Light says calmly.  “If I cooperate with you, the investigation will move forward, and if I really am Kira, I might reveal myself.  In other words, conduct the investigation while investigating me, all at once.  I think it’s a great idea, but…aren’t you getting the wrong idea, Ryuga?”

Lawliet raises one eyebrow, knowing with certainty that Light has addressed one facet of why he’s compelled to work together – and the dominant one, for that matter.  But his answer revealed nothing about aging, or even suggested that he was aware of the phenomenon having begun. 

“I’m interested in the Kira case, and conducting detective work as a hobby, but I’m not Kira, and so – naturally – I don’t want him to kill me,” Light continues.  “I have no proof that you aren’t Kira, either.  It would be strange for just one of us to be investigated, wouldn’t it?” He smiles, somewhat smugly. “Neither of us have proof that we aren’t Kira.  But Ryuga, if you are L, I’m sure you can show me proof of that.  Like…having someone from the task force or my father confirm that you are really L, in person.  If you can’t do that, I won’t investigate with you.”

_You sure do talk a lot, don’t you, Yagami? Typical for someone who hates to lose._

_Don’t you know you’ve already lost? Look at me.  You touched me.  You’re losing._

_But, seven percent…could you really be…?_

“I never said I wouldn’t let you meet anyone from task force headquarters,” Lawliet says dryly, and something in him is satisfied to see the way Light’s back straightens to arch against the back of the booth and his lips are parted, ever so slightly, with surprise.  “I am currently working with your father. If I take you to headquarters, you’ll help with the investigation.  Am I correct?”

Light’s eyes widen as he stares at Lawliet, and – inexplicably, within a moment that threatens to freeze time – Lawliet feels him staring at his temple.  It’s impossible to glimpse just one grey hair from where he sits, but somehow he senses that Light inexplicably knows Lawliet is aging, or that there’s some secret lying between them even more so than the obvious one occupying their conversation.  Does he feel the same urge to reach out – to touch and to be touched, an urge that is easy enough to resist but oddly persistent in whispering from the back of his mind to the front?

The ringing of his cell phone in his pocket interrupts his train of thought.  “Excuse me for a moment,” Lawliet murmurs absentmindedly to Light, digging in his pocket and barely registering as he hears Light say, softly, “Me as well.”

It’s Quillsh who answers the phone.

“Ryuzaki, something terrible has happened. It’s Chief Yagami…he’s had a heart attack.” Quillsh clears his throat. “I’m waiting outside to take you both to the hospital.”

Lawliet freezes.

He mouths the word Yagami, and although he wants to shout, he’s incapable of speaking.

Involuntarily, his first reaction is to look at Light, who – at the same precise moment – glances up and meets his own gaze with unabashed fear. 

“My father…!” Light whispers, alarmed, panic seeming to settle into him.

Abruptly, Lawliet shifts into motion, afraid of what might happen if he let time paralyze him.  He snaps the phone shut and says calmly, “Come on.  Let’s go.”  He swings his legs out to leave the booth, and before he walks away, he notices that Light hasn’t moved.

“Come on, Yagami,” Lawliet insists, casting a quick glance at the door, where he can see Quillsh is parked.  “We’re going to the hospital.” 

Light simply stares back at him, his eyes wide.

Lawliet resists the urge to sigh deeply – six hundred years of handling crimes with high levels of intensity have trained him to handle panic situations well, but Light hasn’t had the luxury – or the damnation – of an eternity to practice such things. 

For reasons inexplicable to him, he outstretches a hand for Light to grab.

And, for reasons perhaps even more mysterious, Light takes it. 

The act seems unusual for both of them, and Lawliet quickly drops the embrace as soon as they’re both standing. He still feels Light’s skin, cool and dry, in his palm, and he wants to erase the memory, so he says nothing and simply starts walking towards the exit.

_This changes nothing._

_Light Yagami is Kira, and this changes nothing._

 

* * *

 

 

Outside, the cherry blossoms are still falling, cascading pinks and reds.

_This changes nothing._

Lawliet ignores the fact, as he paces to the car with Light in tow, that his own goal essentially becomes an indulgent hum, a mosaic of things he promised the world silently he'd never become -

_(The idea that when it's all over, he'll make Kira his own, by winning the game, and maybe that's how and why they veritably are the same after all.)_

He's not going to lose.

_He hates to lose._

If he keeps going this way, he'll reach Kira, after all.

_That's how he'll win._


	9. Time For All the Works and Days of Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between them, in the silence, hushed prayers. Mistrusting disbelief, sweet promise of a game, the feeling of a hand – cool and dry and confident – on Lawliet’s skin, memories conjured of amaranth in bushes just outside the fence of Wammy’s House that he’d picked with Aceline, the wreathe of branches just outside his window.  
> Light Yagami is Kira. The realization tastes like something bitter in his mouth, precisely the kind of thing for which he’d eat buckets full of strawberries to cleanse his palette. His fingers are touching his own lips and it occurs to him that this is just another facet of the game. Light being his One is nothing more than an added obstacle to compound upon the hardest challenge in his centuries of being a detective – nothing more than an added obstacle. He’s above it.

 

 _There will be time to murder and create,  
_ _And time for all the works and days of hands  
_ _That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
_ _Time for you and time for me,  
_ _And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
_ _And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
_ _Before the taking of a toast and tea._

 

 

When Lawliet breathes into the day, it’s a soft exhale that swirls around his chest and compels him to click his teeth gently as he walks.  Quillsh isn’t parked far away – thankfully so, because it’s hard to imagine Light would be capable of walking for too far, he seems to be in an immense amount of shock. Lawliet fixes his gaze on the ground, glancing down at the way the bricks align, cruciform with all their angles and corners, covered in dirt.  He notices that, rhythmically, his steps alternate with Light’s, and he resorts the urge to scoff at such an observation.

Quillsh doesn’t exit the car to open Lawliet’s door; doubtlessly, he’s avoiding revealing his face to Light, so Lawliet is the one who flings the door open and climbs inside without looking back to peer at Light.  He climbs onto the seat next to the parallel window and curls up, with his knees pressed close to his chest as is customary for him.  Light pauses for a moment outside the door, as if he’s gauging whether or not to engage in the risk of entering the vehicle, but all in all he ultimately decides to climb inside.  Lawliet pauses and turns his head away, keen on ignoring the immediacy of Light’s presence.

The completely black panel between the front and back rows of seats has been implemented, so it’s impossible to catch a glimpse of Quillsh – likewise, Quillsh would be incapable of seeing them, either. Lawliet folds his arms and rests his head on his shoulder, staring out the window with a deliberately blank expression.

“Is he going to die?” he hears Light whisper to himself.

“It’s unlikely, Yagami,” Lawliet says, his voice sounding oddly cold as they feel the vehicle begin to move.  He refuses to glance over at his companion, stoically bent on gazing at the open expanse of the sky.  “We would’ve been informed otherwise.  I’m sure he simply needs to rest in order to recover in full. As I’m sure you’re well aware, if it were Kira who had gotten to him, he’d be dead already.”

The bluntness of the statement sounds harsh as it cuts through the space separating them, but there’s something apparently reassuring in the phrase for Light, because Lawliet hears him breathe out softly, whistling through his teeth – apparently slightly relaxing.

_Is this all a ruse?_

_Or is he genuinely concerned?_

“You’re right,” Light responds evenly, and Lawliet – somewhat against his will – finds himself glancing over at Light. The sun is filtering in through the open panels of the car door, and the rays bleach Light’s hair a bright auburn red.  “Thanks…Ryuga.”

“Naturally.”

Neither of them looks away for a heartbeat – a moment that seems to last unusually long, in Lawliet’s eyes – until Light coughs slightly and apparently attempts to peer through the barrier separating the front and back seats.  “Who’s up front?” he asks, leaning forward and then glancing backwards to smile fleetingly at Lawliet. “Is it a secret?”

“I suppose,” Lawliet drawls boredly, dismissive of the question and ignoring the way Light’s curious nature almost compelled him to smile. He turns away to face the window. Naturally, the presence of such curiosity is appealing to him because it reinforces the stereotypes he’d imagine pertain to Kira’s personality. 

_Kira is someone who must be curious, who must seek answers, who must want to know about things.  But, of course, that’s many people – not only Kira._

He can profile Kira, and Light, for that matter, as much as he wants, but until he inadvertently compels Light to reveal some piece of information only Kira would know, he would lack concrete evidence. He knows this, but even so, he cannot help but draw parallels between Light’s personality and Kira’s profile.

Perhaps it’s only vaguely unsettling to him that he imagines Kira – and Light, by extension – might be relatively similar to himself. And, if it’s true Light is his One –

_Light Yagami is not my One.  He will never be my One._

He’s broken from his thoughts by the feel of fingertips on his arm.  He recoils and flinches back, his head jerking quickly to the side to look at Light, who is apparently unwittingly reaching out to touch him. 

“What are you doing?” Lawliet asks bluntly, his eyes hardening as he stares back at Light, his skin crawling.

“What’s this?” Light asks, his voice hushed, as he gazes fixedly at one place on Lawliet’s temple.  He reaches out, his cheekbones dyed a soft shade of pink, like the buds of cherry blossoms had graced the flush of his skin with the bright hue.

He brushes back a bit of Lawliet’s hair, and – Lawliet knows, unmistakably, what he’s looking for, and what he’s looking at – touches a small bit of skin near his ear. 

“Is this…?” Light whispers, his eyes widening as he refuses to look away from what he must see – the small bit of silver hair otherwise concealed by the mass of dark, unruly tresses.

_He’s trying to beat me at my own game._

_Is he trying to unsettle me?_

“That, Yagami,” Lawliet says dryly, his tone freezing Light, who pauses with hair still caught by his fingertips, “is, in fact, my head. What exactly are you seeking to do?”

Despite the calmness of his voice, he can feel the blood rushing to his hands, almost as though someone had caught him in the middle of a crime and he were suddenly exposed.

_Does he know?_

_Light Yagami – does he use seduction to influence his victims?_

It’s not Lawliet’s crime being caught.

Light’s skin dances from the mosaic of the sun bleeding in through the windows, and his eyes are oddly bright.  

“Sorry, Ryuga,” he says gently.  “I was merely curious.”  He drops his hand from its proximity to Lawliet’s face, and Lawliet is abruptly taken by surprise by the way he feels Light’s breath curling around his cheek. He turns away, raising only an eyebrow and easily dismissing the nuance of the moment, from all external accounts.

_Six hundred years for this…?_

_Will it be worth it?_

Between them, in the silence, hushed prayers. Mistrusting disbelief, sweet promise of a game, the feeling of a hand – cool and dry and confident – on Lawliet’s skin, memories conjured of amaranth in bushes just outside the fence of Wammy’s House that he’d picked with Aceline, the wreathe of branches just outside his window.

Light Yagami is Kira.  The realization tastes like something bitter in his mouth, precisely the kind of thing for which he’d eat buckets full of strawberries to cleanse his palette.  His fingers are touching his own lips and it occurs to him that this is just another facet of the game. Light being his One is nothing more than an added obstacle to compound upon the hardest challenge in his centuries of being a detective – nothing more than an added obstacle. He’s above it.

 

* * *

 

 

When they arrive at the hospital, Light flings the door open without any hesitation, pressing his fingers to the glass of the window to prop the door open.  He holds it for Lawliet, who climbs out with significantly more care, feeling the way his limbs stretch as he walks.  It feels peculiar to exit the car without bidding a small thank you and nod to Quillsh, but he doesn’t let the moment perturb him.

When they enter the lobby of the hospital, Sachiko is waiting for them.  Lawliet remembers her from the tapes – she has a gentle smile, the creases at the corner of her eyes speaking to the scope of her love.  He resumes an unassuming posture, shoving his hands into his pockets and immediately adorning an innocent expression so as to shrug off any suspicions.

Light glances back at him.  The flash of amber eyes, the touch of a hand on a cheek, the feel of a hand on a shoulder – he can almost taste the blossom of curiosity on his own lips, his own desire for discovering proof – Light must be Kira – burning at his tongue and compelling him to hear bells ringing softly in his head.

This is as much of an opportunity as any.

 

* * *

 

 

Sachiko leaves the pair of them in Soichiro’s hospital room.  Light is sitting closest to Soichiro, with Lawliet perched carefully next to him on the adjacent chair, his feet tucked underneath of him as always.  He never relaxes on appearances; especially not now, as he’s under the careful eye of Soichiro.

“You’re sure it’s just fatigue, right?” Light asks, leaning forward and moving his chair closer to his father’s bed. His eyebrows are creasing carefully, and Lawliet steals the opportunity to peer closer at Light’s temples – he sees no immediate traces of grey hairs or any signs of aging otherwise, but he’s unsure if his own nerves are compelling him to miss evidence he may have otherwise not overlooked.  There's also a chance the evidence could be hidden. 

“Yes,” says Soichiro, somewhat heavily, a smile still dancing across his lips.  “When I collapsed, I thought it was Kira, but I’m alright.  I’ve been pushing myself a bit hard lately.”

“Especially since your son has been suspected of being Kira,” Lawliet adds quietly, tilting forwards in the chair. He senses Light turning towards him, shooting him a glare, but the reaction to his statement changes nothing.

“You’ve told that to my father?” Light snaps, clearly indignant.  His hands visibly clench into fists.

Lawliet glances sideways.  “Why…yes.  I’ve told him everything,” he says softly – before thinking to amend his statement, almost everything, aside from the presence of the aging. He suspects Soichiro wouldn’t take the development lightly.  “I’ve even told him that I am L.”

Light’s forehead creases into an expression of irrefutable surprise, his lips parting slightly with the weight of the apparent surprise.

_But are you really shocked to hear this, Light Yagami?_

“That’s right,” Soichiro says in concession, after apparently seeing Light’s deliberately perplexed glance.  “He’s L.  We call him Ryuzaki so others can’t find out, but there’s no mistaking it. He’s L.”

There’s a heavy pause.  Lawliet is absolutely certain that Light is digesting the information – potentially wondering about how easily he could eliminate him and the investigative team, if he is in fact Kira.  He’s lost in the sentiment of his fingers touching his lips, feeling the weight of the world spinning around him.

“So, Ryuzaki,” Soichiro prompts after a moment, “has talking with my son cleared away your suspicions?”

There’s something implicitly hopeful in the question.

Lawliet, feeling the burn of Light’s eyes on him, thinks of the car ride, thinks of the game of tennis – the way they ran, the touch of cherry blossoms on his neck, the interrogation at the coffee shop, and the sea of green foliage shielding them from prying ears.  “I’ll say that I suspect him, but it’s only a little,” Lawliet says tersely, moving his gaze from Soichiro to Light. “I’ll explain once more. Kira killed twelve FBI agents, who were in Japan.  They were tracking those who were connected to the Japanese police.  One of them was Raye Penber, and there were many suspicious things surrounding his death…”

He trails off, waiting for Light to fill the spots he’d left unexplained.

He knows that he will.

Surely enough, Light frowns and breaks the eye contact between him and Lawliet.  “And I was one of the people he was investigating,” he says, a sense of finality poisoning his tone as he crosses his arms and leans back in the chair.

_He has a pretty frown.  Almost too contrived._

“It’s no wonder I’m a suspect,” Light says, casting a quick glance at Soichiro and then turning to pout at Lawliet.

He, Lawliet, who is rather taken aback by the way his amber eyes are burning - and is thus forced to retain a neutral expression – not keen on revealing the way his stomach flips, perhaps a bit anxiously and perhaps a bit excitedly.

“No.  It’s as Ryuga says,” Soichiro adds, rather more gently than Lawliet was keen to emulate – although the words are humming somewhat in the background. “There is no one else to suspect.”

“Not to mention, your deductive ability is quite impressive,” Lawliet says, bowing his head slightly as he never breaks his eyes from Light.  “It’s always quick and accurate.”

A moment of silence passes between the three in the room.

“Ryuga, I’ll cooperate with you on this investigation,” Light says, still refusing to uncross his arms.  “My father has vouched that you’re L.  Also, I want to catch Kira and prove I’m not him.”

“Light…” Soichiro says quietly from the bed, and they both turn to listen.  “Soon, you’re going to have to study to enter the police force.  It won’t be too late to do this afterwards.”

Light immediately straightens.

“Dad?  What are you talking about?  I don’t know how many years that’ll take.  And I promised you, didn’t I?  If anything happened to you…”

Lawliet’s eyes narrow as he watches the scene unfold.

“I told you, I’d be the one to get Kira executed,” Light says, something dangerous dancing in the back of his tone, his eyes suddenly flashing dark. 

_It’s hard to believe this is all an act._

_No – if it is an act, it’s too corny._

_Would he profess love in much the same fashion?_

_So what would he think, about knowing his One…?_

“Light, listen to me,” says Soichiro, his tone belying something serious, and Lawliet glances up.  “The fact of the matter is, Kira is evil.  But recently I’ve been thinking… The real evil is the power to kill people. People who attain that kind of power are unlucky, no matter how you use it.  Nothing gained by killing people can bring true happiness.”

Lawliet feels something unexpected racing to his throat, threatening to choke him.

_What about falling in love, then? What about finding your One? What then?_

But apart from the panic building and rushing close to his skin, Lawliet hears himself speaking.  “It’s as he says,” he explains, his voice hushed.  “If Kira is an ordinary person who gained this power, then he is a very unlucky person.”

_Unlucky.  That’s how he met me.  That’s how I met him._

He imagines standing outside of a church, bleached stained glass racing across his skin and painting him all different colors. He visualizes sleeping in a garden of flowers, letting the petals breathe over his bones and weave through his fingertips.

“Ryuzaki, I’m sorry for causing you trouble,” Soichiro says, somewhat abashedly.  “I’ll try to recover quickly.”

Before either of them have the chance to respond, a nurse appears from around the corner. 

“Excuse me.  Visiting hours are over,” she says sharply, and within moments, the act comes to a close.

And for these moments, they are tennis shoes on the stained-white marble, they are shadows roaming through the halls, they are ghosts of the already-damned haunting the spaces outside doors.

They are hands, coming dangerously close to brushing in the silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Quillsh is waiting outside when they exit the lobby, this time prepared to open the door.  Implied – Light will be finding his own route home, presumably through public transportation.  The ride in the vehicle from earlier was a rarity.  Lawliet has shoved his hands so far into his pockets that they are bunched into fists, and he’s leaving red half-moons on his palms, as he well knows.

“Ryuga,” says Light, and Lawliet turns, his eyes widening to peer through the darkness.  “Is there any way that I can get you to believe that I’m not Kira?” There’s a plea in the question, one that doesn’t go unrecognized.

“If you aren’t Kira, there wouldn’t be any need to do that,” Lawliet returns flatly, and he’s not immune to noticing the way Light instantly changes his posture, suddenly and immediately angry.

“Cut that out!” Light snaps, his reaction to the conversation almost compelling a physical reaction from Lawliet, who feels an unfamiliar tugging in the bottom of his stomach.  “Think about how it feels, to be accused of being Kira.” His eyes flash, challenging, in the dark spinning around them.  The sky is heavy with dark blue, the shadows of the trees skeletons against the expanse of the stars stretching above them. 

Lawliet humors him by glancing at the sky, wondering how much worse it will feel when Light realizes that his lifespan has a limit – and turns back, unfeeling, to simply state, “Ah.  It feels horrible.”

“How about keeping watch over me in a place without even television for a month?” Light offers, throwing his hands out, palms open, the night crashing and swelling over him with the gesture of helplessness.

Lawliet’s stomach twists with the very idea, but he simply turns away. 

_Would someone really go that far to clear their name?_

“That would be no good,” he says simply. “I can’t do anything which would deprive you of basic human rights.  And furthermore…it’s nonsense to take suggestions from the suspect.”

“I see,” Light returns quietly, his gaze softening within a moment as Lawliet turns to settle into the car.  Quillsh closes the door behind him, leaving the window down so that the pair can still speak.

“We’ll know in time if you’re not Kira,” Lawliet says with a sense of finality, gazing up at Light as he moves closer to the car.

_And if you’re my One._

_It has to be you._

_Who else could it be?_

_It was always meant to be you, wasn't it?_

“Also, during that exchange with your father,” he adds carefully, “I thought that you might not be Kira. Such proclamations of devotion are difficult to falsify.”

Something in Light’s posture changes, and it’s as though he sees Light staring at the side of his head – right at his temples – where he knows they saw the grey hair earlier.

_Devotion…_

“Well, then,” Lawliet says abruptly. “Take care of your father.”

“Wait.”  Light leans closer to the window so that he and Lawliet are at eye-level, and Lawliet feels his pulse race to his wrists.  “Don’t go.”

“Yes?”

“I said that I would cooperate with the investigation, but I don’t think I can do anything until my father is well again.”

“I understand.”

Light nods, barely perceptible, staring deliberately at Lawliet.

“Well then.  Goodnight, Yagami.”

Light says nothing, and within a moment, the car is long gone.

 

* * *

 

“Are you in love with him?”

A hushed question, afraid of its own answer. Absurd. 

The ghost of a whisper shelved by the fall from grace of the cherry blossoms at their feet, the feel of tennis shoes on stone and the race of a balanced conversation.  Shadows of a hand racing a finger along the clear white paint at the hospital, vivid greys bleeding over them in the elevator.  Static lending itself to staccato clarity.

_Light Yagami, are you not Kira?_

“Don’t be ridiculous, Quillsh.”

 

* * *

 

 

_[Meanwhile, standing back at the front of the hospital, Light Yagami is smiling smugly, hands tucked into his pockets in a gesture of unmistakable confidence.  He feels the light breeze of the night kiss his skin, gently sweep his hair from his cheekbones._

_“Hideki Ryuga… Or Ryuzaki,” he whispers to himself and to Ryuk into the dark.  “He really is the L I’ve been fighting.”_

_“You bet,” Ryuk chuckles, his voice a low growl. The sound of his wings cutting through the air ungracefully is not unfamiliar, and the pattern adorns Light with an odd sense of calm as he sorts his way mentally through the events of the day._

_“Ryuk,” Light says softly, lifting his head and tilting his chin up, somewhat proud.  “I never once felt unlucky since I picked up the notebook and gained this power. I’m wonderfully happy, and I’ll create a perfect world.  I have all the time in the world.”  He casts an ironic glance at his watch, wholly dismissing it._

_“I couldn’t care less if the notebook’s made you happy or unlucky,” Ryuk concedes, as they begin to walk away from the hospital.   “But…” He trails off, breaking his words to interject a few ridiculous giggles.  “It seems people who have shinigami attached to them experience nothing but misfortune.  And…”_

_He starts to speak, but apparently thinks better of it, amused by the workings of his own mind.  Light has come to see that Ryuk’s ramblings are often driven by something or another past the depths of what they actually converse about, so he leaves the matter alone as they pace through the moonlight to return to Light’s house._

 

* * *

 

_He spends the evening writing more names, a peaceful quiet dawning on him in spite of the events of the day._

_And he’s combing through his hair after showering and getting dressed when he sees it._

_At first, he’s convinced he’s hallucinating. He drops the comb into the sink, where it falls with a hollow thud.  He runs his hands over the glass of the mirror, clearing it of all traces of condensation, leaning in closer and closer as the horror builds inside of him like a scream. Like someone’s stealing his soul, with cold fingers prying into his chest._

_No.  No. No._

_He can’t feel his hands – everything fades._

_Surely, it’s impossible._

_He grabs his towel and faster than he could’ve ever imagined, he’s running from the bathroom to his room.  His feet barely touch the ground, his toes lending him to sprinting with a sort of fervent panic, his breath hitching in heavy gasps. Behind his eyelids – the handshake at the induction ceremony, the casual touch in the car ride, the glimpse of a single grey hair on L’s head – the way Ryuga couldn’t seem to look away from him with that bit of guilt dancing behind his eyes – like he had a secret crawling down his neck._

_The only one he’d touched since his eighteen birthday._

_No, no.  No._

_He’s almost unaware of burying himself in his bedsheets, panic twisting in his stomach.  It’s possible he was wrong, but he’s too shaken to leave the comfort of the sheets lying cavernous around him.  He feels himself shaking with fear and anger in equal parts, his teeth clenching with his jaw over and over again as he spasms, his arms and legs jerking involuntarily like his entire body was retching, rejecting the principle of what he knows is happening to him._

_“Ryuk,” he hisses in a vaguely broken voice after a minute, and it’s like a prayer – ironically, to death.  “Ryuk…. Ryuk.”_

_He tosses the sheets back from his head, slowly shaking away from the bed, staring at the emptiness of his palms in front of him. He watches the shinigami approach, and he’s trembling from head to toe.  “Dammit,” he hisses, and then, louder –_

_“He got me!  How did he get me?  Damn!”_

_“What’s wrong, Light?” Ryuk chuckles, although there’s no way he could veritably be unaware of the answer. He undoubtedly knew Light’s lifespan, as it hovered above his head._

_“He got me!  L got me!  I’ve never been so – humiliated –‘’_

_He’s choking on the words as they spill from his lips._

_“I’m – I’m –  Look –‘’  He pulls the hair away from the side of his head, his voice breaking with the anger.  “God dammit!  L got me, he got me!  I’ve never been so…humiliated –”_

_“Say.  Why don’t you just make the Shinigami eye deal, then?” Ryuk offers. “That should solve all your problems, won’t it?  You can kill him that way.”_

_“It’s not going to stop me aging!” Light Yagami shrieks, beating his fists against the bed.  “He did this, he did this to me.  He’s my… My….”_

_“He’s your One,” Ryuk supplements, his eyes widening as he watches Light furiously punch the sheets.   “Humans are so interesting.”_

_“What if this is all a trap?” Light says, his voice raising and cracking at the last note of the sentence.  “What if he slipped me something – a catalyst or something like that?  But I saw it on him earlier – he had a grey hair too – god dammit, god damn, how did he know? He knew.  What if this – a trap –‘’  His breathing is heavy and panicked._

_“Would killing him solve the problem?”_

_“And what good would trying to kill him do, if it’s a trap?” Light snarls, spinning to face Ryuk, anger distorting his usually beautiful features.  “If he’s not really L, then that would be just like telling L that I’m Kira!”_

_“S-sorry,” Ryuk stutters._

_“Shinigami killing people and humans killing people aren’t the same thing, no matter how you look at it,” Light says, lowering his voice somewhat.  “Whether we do it from finding our Ones or…”  He trails off, and then his eyes harden.  “I want to kill him. No matter what it takes. But if I do, and it’s traced back to me…”_

_“Most people can’t kill their Ones,” Ryuk adds quietly._

_“I don’t care,” Light snaps, slamming his fist again on the bed for the sake of emphasis.  “I don’t care.  I’m not most people. He’s getting in the way of everything – he’s already cut my lifespan down, I can’t let him get in the way of…of…fixing the world.”_

_He resists the urge to stuff a handful of sheets into his mouth, to bite into and scream._

_“What’s more, I never thought L would come up to me and say, ‘I’m L!’  And now this,” he says, the words pouring from him in a fit of anger.  “I underestimated him.  I knew there was something strange when I saw his hair earlier. I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.”_

_“Haven’t you already?” Ryuk laughs, but Light is wholly infuriated.  The only thing he manages to articulate is a low growl from the back of his throat, the depths of his frustration manifesting themselves only in the way his hands shake uncontrollably while he presses them against his legs to try to stabilize._

_He and L have already proven to be each others’ undoings, but this…_

_This changes everything.]_

 

* * *

 

L Lawliet wakes in the early hours of the morning, covered in a cold sweat with the hair sticking to the back of his neck. He feels acutely nauseous not only in his stomach, but in all of his limbs – as though someone had whispered something violent to his bones and he had trembled his way into a panic attack in response, an uncharacteristic response.

He stumbles out of the bed and blinks tiredly to see the alarm clock, reading three in the morning – he peels the plain white shirt from his skin and walks to the window, his footsteps uneven and refusing to act rhythmically.  He feels the light of the moon tracing his skin as he stands close to the wall, lets the chilliness of the drywall press against the arch of his spine.

_Kira._

_Light Yagami, what are you doing now?_

_Do you know?_

_You should be here right now._

 

* * *

 

 

“Next is the Naomi Misora case.  Should we go ahead and open a criminal investigation?”

“We should investigate it separately from the Kira case,” Lawliet replies flatly.  “We should avoid using photographs and use only police sketches.”

“But she’s already been missing for four months.” Matsuda’s frown is unmistakable. “She’s probably dead already.”

The task force stares at Lawliet, seeing him bathed in the glow of the golden light filtering in through the windows.

“If she’s dead, it’s odd her body has been found yet,” Lawliet counters, a hint of anger breaching his tone.  “If it does turn up, we might be able to find a clue.”

He twists his hands into a knot.

Not even Beyond Birthday had killed Naomi Misora.

But Light Yagami…  

He would.

“Ryuzaki.”

Quillsh rushes into the room, his eyes large and somewhat frantic – he’s wringing his wrists nervously, although he avoids directly looking at Lawliet: something characteristic of their interactions since their conversation in the car upon driving to To-Oh University the other day. “Ryuzaki, take a look at Sakura TV.”

His voice is hushed. 

“Something terrible is happening.”

All of them, the task force – they all rush to the television at once.

Dread builds in Lawliet’s stomach.

_Light Yagami, what have you done now?_

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Lawliet uses the remote and flips to the Sakura TV channel.


	10. Pools That Stand in Drains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am almost glad I found you, Light-kun.  
> You were worth it.

 

_The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,  
_ _Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,  
_ _Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,  
_ _Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys…_

 

 

_[“I told you, Ryuzaki.  I’m not Kira.”_

_Lawliet feels Light’s back pressed against his own. The moonlight is pouring in through the window and bleaching everything silver, so they are nothing more than different shades of the same night.  If he concentrates, Lawliet can feel each protrusion of Light’s spine against his – if he concentrates, he can feel the way time rushes past him and whispers through his hair and kisses his skin._

_“You may have mentioned it once or twice…Light-kun. But it may surprise you to hear that your incessant proclamations of that fact do not, in fact, clear your name in any greater capacity.  I told you once, I don’t take recommendations from suspects.”_

_Light sighs loudly, and flips over onto his back – Lawliet can sense the shift in the mattress.  He imagines Light running a hand across his forehead and then tucking it behind his head onto the pillow, closing his eyes but with no intention of sleeping.  It’s far too bright in the room, and the curtains work in no helpful capacity._

_“Go to sleep, already, Ryuzaki.  You move too much.”_

_“I am not tired.  Is Light-kun tired?”_

_“Not yet.  I’m thinking too much.”_

_Lawliet bites his lip, and closes his eyes, the weight of their lids far too heavy.  Perhaps he is, in fact, tired – but he’d be damned if he were to concede that he was prepared to submit to the fatigue of the day._

_“Are you sure you aren’t tired?” Light asks quietly, leaning over.  Lawliet opens his eyes, altogether not alarmed to see Light’s bright amber eyes peering at him, his face rather too close for comfort.  “You look tired. You always look tired.”_

_“Well, Light-kun, I’ve been alive for six hundred years. What do you very well expect?” Lawliet snaps in turn, his tone a smooth and unbreaking lilt as he flips onto his back. Something about Light’s presence compels him to act in such strange ways – speaking flippantly and carelessly, without any regard for the tone of his words.  It’s as though he loses control, in a sense – the usual guise of calm shed late at night, when he’s far too tired from days of staying awake and losing himself in evidence that threatens to bury him as if in a grave._

_As if in a grave._

  
_The stakes of this case have always been rather morbid._

_“You’re tired,” Light says calmly. “Here.”_

_He sits up straight, stretching his legs out in front of him, and pats his lap._

_Lawliet stares at him, narrowing his eyes. “Light-kun, don’t be ridiculous.”_

_Light-kun is rather too kind today, indeed, his mind whispers._

_“I won’t be able to sleep unless you stop twitching,” Light says, somewhat indignantly.  “You may as well try.”_

_“There is only about a two-percent chance this will assist my ability to sleep.”_

_“And you don’t seem to be one to dismiss possibilities for small percentages.”_

_Light smiles a little, bowing his head slightly._

_He, too, has dark circles under his eyes._

_But he’s different from before._

_The silver at the sides of his temples glows, and it’s as though they’re inside a clock, their hands and legs and arms all mechanisms they cannot even begin to fathom.  They are all too abstract, placed into concrete bodies._

_Reluctantly, Lawliet leans closer to Light, laying his head in the spot Light had indicated and curling, somewhat unavoidably, against Light’s chest._

_“This is absolutely absurd,” he murmurs, closing his eyes all the same._

_Absurd that he feels more like he’s come home than he has in any other time during six hundred years.  Absurd that he’s let himself fall at the first opportunity, falling from grace like Lucifer.  He resents this part of himself – the part that allows him to do things like this. To be human._

_Light is Kira._

_He must be.  He’s never wrong.  He’s never been wrong, not once in six hundred years._

_But…_

_He doesn’t hear Light’s reply, if there is any._

_Time slips from his fingers; an unknown amount passes. His mind is all hazy static when he feels something against his forehead – like someone pushed his hair back softly and pressed their lips against his skin.  Hands stroke his hair, whisper unintelligible things. Gentle, sweet. He shivers, and presses closer to the touch._

_And, then, softly –_

_“I don’t want to die.”_

_Softer still –_

_“Please save me.”]_

 

* * *

 

 

_[…I know._

_I wish I could._

_I am almost glad I found you, Light-kun._

_You were worth it.]_

 

* * *

 

 

“In other words, we are all Kira’s hostages.”

Lawliet bites his thumb absently, his eyes widening as he stares fixedly at the television screen.  The world hums around him, buzzing at the prospect of what’s about to unfold like everyone has a secret but him – even when, in reality – it’s him with the secrets.

Before them, three people sit at a desk that seems to stretch to fill the screen in an unnatural way.  The man sitting at the far left shrugs uncomfortably in his suit, his expression folding in a dark way, his forehead dipping in concerned lines but his mouth hardset to accompany a narrow and disapproving stare. The man in the middle seems to be simpering, but only just beneath the surface – Lawliet knows what he’d find if he were to tear through his skin like paper.  The woman on the right is completely and wholly neutral, her eyes faintly glazed over.

“It is also our duty as news broadcasters to give you this announcement,” the man in the middle announces, his mouth twisting up as though he were enjoying the events of the day. “Please understand it’s not a hoax, and that we are not airing these tapes solely for the purpose of sensationalism.”

_Kira’s hostages?_

_What is this?_

“Four days ago, our program director was sent these four tapes. Without a doubt, they are from Kira,” the man on the left adds, his voice low and gravelly.  “The first tape predicted the time of death of two suspected felons yesterday.  As predicted, they died yesterday of heart attacks.”

Lawliet frowns, and unconsciously grips more tightly onto his knees.  Naturally, if the information they’re sharing is, in fact, true, only Kira would be capable of instigating such a chain of events.  He’s silent, still, feeling the unspoken whispers of the task force surround him. They don’t need to speak for their concerns to be evident.  The static of the television screen blurs in front of his eyes.

He’s almost able to forget about the immanency of his own death.

“And Kira has instructed us to air these two tapes today, at exactly 5:59pm,” the female broadcaster finishes, flipping a bit of her hair over her shoulder.  “A tape which predicts the killings to prove that he is Kira, and another to send a message to the people of the world.”

Matsuda gulps, audibly.

Ukita makes a vaguely disgusted noise in the back of his throat.  “Well. It’s probably just another fake documentary, isn’t it?”

“It couldn’t be.  Who would make such a vicious fake?” Matsuda whispers in turn, casting nervous glances around the room – his eyes flick from each of the task force members, to the television screen, and back again.

Lawliet breathes in deeply, narrowing his eyes at the screen as the display shifts from the line of the three reporters to a blank background with the word ‘Kira’ scrawled in elegant script across the front.

_It looks just like the L we use.  It cannot be a coincidence._

“I am Kira,” the screen tells them, in a hushed voice simultaneously filled with a loud sort of pride. 

Chills race down Lawliet’s spine, but he’d be damned to let them break his calm demeanor. 

_I am not a slave to the whims of this fantastical figure._

_Particularly not if he’s Light Yagami._

_Light Yagami…_

“If this video was aired on April 18th, at exactly 5:59pm, the time is now 5:59:47…48…49…” the chilling voice drawls on, and Lawliet is disgusted to hear the promise of such seconds dripping from invisible fingers. 

_So careless._

“Now.  Please change the channel to Taiyo TV,” Kira says to them, softly, almost seductively. “The anchor, Mr. Kazuhiko Hibima, will die of a heart attack at exactly six o’clock.”

The entirety of the room seems to lurch forward on a violent tilt.

“Change it!” Matsuda cries, and Lawliet hears him shifting. Like he’s digging his hands into his scalp – perhaps frustrated by their hopelessness.  Perhaps doubting their own adequacy.

One of them changes the channel, and surely enough – the news anchor is gasping at his chest, tilting back in his chair so that his spine is arched in an ungodly fashion.  Lawliet feels frustration surge through his body like a jolt of electricity, but instead of moving to action he’s frozen.

 _So many of Kira’s attacks are based on the ephemeral nature of time,_ he supposes.

_He relies on time.  Just like all of us.  The timing must be right._

“How could he?” Aizawa says suddenly, leaping to his feet and lurching to the side, as though he has every intention to punch the wall. Lawliet’s eyes flick to him briefly, but within seconds they’re flipping back to the previous channel.

_Well, Kira.  I’m on the edge of my seat.  You’re using up my time; this had better be worth it._

“Bring one… No.  Bring two TVs here,” Lawliet hears himself saying, but his brain is split.

“There shall be another victim,” Kira’s voice taunts them, dancing behind the veil of the script scrawled on the screen. “The target is NHN TV commentator, Mr. Seiji Kumaizumi, as he has continued to condemn me.  He is to appear live…”

“R-Ryuzaki!” 

“Change it to Channel 24!” 

Something’s seizing at his lungs.

_Light Yagami, if this is you…._

When they flip the channel, it’s much the same scene as one from before.  The victim is lying awkwardly in the chair, his limbs bent at grotesque angles as though they were all stretching to breathe. 

“Change it…change it back.”  They oblige.

“I trust you now believe I’m Kira,” the screen whispers, menacingly, as they see the font dance – frozen – around them, mocking them. 

_Kira said he was going to send a direct message to the people of the world…_

The realization dawns on Lawliet in a split moment. It’s not difficult to ascertain.

“Something will terrible will happen if we don’t stop this broadcast,” he says, fully raising his voice for the first time that he can remember in countless years.  His fingers are buzzing with something vaguely resembling panic. It’s like fingers are clawing at his neck, scuttling through all of his veins, and he’s fighting to keep his head above the water. 

“Get Sakura TV on the line!” Matsuda cries, tumbling across the room, a mix of long limbs and panic incarnate.  He throws himself at the phone, punching numbers quickly.

_Ah.  Perhaps he has the number memorized?_

“It’s no good,” Aizawa yells from the back of the room, his eyes widening with a mix of fear and anger.  “No one I know at the station has their cell phones on.”

“The lines at the station are all busy!” Matsuda adds, spinning around to face Lawliet, tangling himself in the wires.

“Damn!”

The cry comes from Ukita, towards the back of the room. It’s followed by a quick spattering of footsteps, and Lawliet breathes deeply.

“Ukita! Where are you going?” Matsuda says, his voice breaking, and Lawliet bites his thumb so hard he’s almost surprised he doesn’t draw blood.

“I’ll go to the station and stop this at the source. It’s our only choice,” Ukita returns evenly, and within seconds – before waiting for any further responses – he flings the door open, and is heard sprinting down the hallway.

_But…._

Lawliet’s thoughts are humming indulgently.

One word overshadows everything else.

_Light…_

“Everyone, please listen to me,” the television screen says, calling their attention back. 

Lawliet stares, unblinking.  Waiting.

“I don’t want to kill the innocent. I hate evil, and I love justice.”

_Kira…_

_Light, can you love anything?_

“I consider the police an ally, and not my enemy.”

Teeth.  Skin. His hands are static.

_Damn you, Kira._

“I intend to create a world without evil. If everyone cooperates, this will be simple.  We cannot hold immortal prisoners forever.  They need to die.  The world cannot exist forever as it does now.”

_Light Yagami, remember that you, too, will die.  It's me._

“If no one tries to catch me, the innocent will not die. Even if you don’t agree with me, keep your sentiments to yourself.  Do not broadcast it, and I won’t kill you.”

Lawliet glances around the room only once. Everything seems to colored dark green, or grey – like everything is melting into the surroundings. They’re all fading, even as they speak. The thought crosses his mind that if it were, in fact, Light Yagami who had sent these tapes, perhaps they were compelled by a mental breakdown of sorts – the realization that he has a finite amount of time to do his work on earth, before he dies.  The result of nothing more than a panic attack.

“Please be patient.  I will create a better world for everyone.  I will change this tainted world into a beautiful one, where only kind people live.”

_Then you’ll be the only evil one left._

_And you don’t have as much time on your hands as you think._

“Imagine it.  Together, the police and I will create a utopia.  Our utopia.”

_Our…_

Lawliet can hear Aizawa and Matsuda frantically punching numbers into the phones, but it’s all in the back of his mind. It’s like background noise. He vaguely registers the two televisions placed in front of him by Mogi, but he is keener on noticing the way his thumbnail defies being broken by his teeth.

_Light Yagami.  Light Yagami._

_My One…would never do this…_

_Light Yagami will never be my One._

_What is happening?_

And, then, there – it catches his eye, at the edge of his consciousness.

He peers more carefully at the footage on the second, smaller television.  From what he can tell, it’s a shot from outside Sakura TV’s station headquarters – and a figure, slumped ungracefully in front of it, lies still.

_Ukita…_

“Take a look! Someone has collapsed! We’re in front of Sakura TV studio, and…”

The voices from the television screen are ugly, screeching.

Lawliet is stone.

“U-Ukita! Damn it,” Aizawa mutters. “It’s Kira, isn’t it?”

The emotion behind his words is choked and unspoken, but it’s enough that the room is suddenly crashing and burning with the waves of it. The very air around them, time itself, it’s all shaking.

“Mr. Aizawa.”  Lawliet’s voice is as clear as bells.  He tells himself his hands aren’t trembling, until he stops pretending and he lives only truth.  “Where are you going?” he asks.

“Where Ukita is, of course.”  Unconditional, unquestioning.

Lawliet knows.  He’s seen enough of it, in six hundred years.

“That wouldn’t be good.  Think about this calmly.”

“Are you telling me that we should all just quietly watch TV here?” Aizawa snaps, and Lawliet pictures him clenching his fists. Clenching his fists, pretending what he needs most of all is in his palms and if he squeezes hard enough, it’ll never escape his grasp.

“If this is Kira’s doing,” Lawliet says softly, “you’ll just meet the same fate.”

“Kira shouldn’t be able to kill without a name! So, explain to me. How did this happen?”

“Our aliases and fake IDs are pointless,” Matsuda whispers, walking closer to Lawliet as though all energy has been drained from him. “You don’t think Kira already knows our names?”

“That may be so,” Lawliet concedes calmly. “If that is the case, it would be a lot easier to kill off all those who are investigating him before making a move. I deduced that he needed a name and a face to kill, but, from what I just saw...it’s not entirely impossible that he may need only a face to kill. 

His hands aren’t shaking.  They never do.

“All I can say is that Kira is within that television station, or is in a place where he can watch who enters the building.”

Aizawa is pacing; Lawliet hears the rhythmic clicking of his steps, reverberating through his bones like a sickening rhythm.

_This sickness…_

“If Kira is in the building,” Aizawa asks, his voice tinged with frustration, “isn’t that more of a reason to go?”

“He may have only placed surveillance cameras in the area,” Lawliet says, rubbing a finger over his knuckles. It’s possible to imagine that his skin will never begin to fold and be dusted by the seconds falling from the clock, particularly at times like these.  “If we go there unprepared, we’ll all be killed.”

Abruptly, he feels a hand grabbing at his shoulder; it lifts him up a bit from his seat, and he keeps his head lowered, deliberately not looking back. 

_Light…_

“You said that you were risking your life to catch Kira, weren’t you?” Aizawa cries, close to his ear, his grip on Lawliet shaking with every word.

_You have no idea._

“Risking my life,” Lawliet says calmly, closing his eyes, “and doing something that’ll easily get me killed are completely different things.”

_So why did I shake your hand, Light Yagami?_

Maybe he’s angry at himself, and maybe that’s what hums in his fingertips now, threatening and awestruck in all sorts of dangerous ways. Maybe now, instead of running on the principle of longevity itself, he’s running on anger, like he has to defy something.  He’ll defy everything, every bit of it.

“What?” Aizawa shouts.

Lawliet's arms are curled carefully around his legs.  His bones are vibrating and want to rip free from his skin.

“Please, control yourself,” he says with deadly calm. “Mr. Ukita was killed. If something were to happen to you as well…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. The grip on his shoulder is slowly released. 

All the while, without giving away a trace - he's still shaking.

_Damn you, Kira._

 

* * *

 

 

_[When Lawliet wakes, he’s still lying on Light’s lap. He blinks, unmoving, seeking before moving to assess the damage – testing the durability of his own nerves. One of his hands is curled closely to his own heart, and the other…_

_The other lies on Light’s leg.  Light’s hand is curled firmly over his, their pointer fingers tightly intertwined._

_A strange pang hits Lawliet’s stomach, and he flinches. He knows that he should move, but he’s reluctant._

_He notices the daylight streaming in through the windows last of all, peculiarly, and feels the fabric of his own shirt rubbing uncomfortably against his skin, like it’s peeling from him.  He casts a glance upwards, to see Light, and is taken aback by the way the shadows from his eyelashes cast patterns all over his cheekbones._

_Was this would it be like, if they had been born in any other world but this one? Or born in any other time?  Would they wake up every day, either together or apart, and scour the world and the folds of time to find each other?  Would they lie in the amaranth just outside, basking in the sun, or otherwise travel the world to find whatever was missing?_

_He can’t imagine another world – one in which people were simply allowed to live and to die without finding their soulmates, or at least being prompted by the challenge.  A challenge of do-or-die._

_Something dangerous whispers in his mind that he knows, in this world or the next, there would be no different ending than this morning. There was really no other way things could turn out differently for the two of them._

_He’d be damned to finding Light Yagami in any other world, regardless of how many times all of those worlds crashed down on his head._

_Maybe this is the ideal crime Beyond had always spoken of. A crime he had no control over, and one he had no way of fixing._

_Slowly, slowly, Lawliet pulls his fingers out from Light’s and moves to a sitting position._

_He’s most eager to simply move from the bed for as much of a radius as the handcuffs will allow, but something stops him._

_He glances again at Light’s face, peaceful and resting in sleep.  His lips are parted ever so slightly, and it’s like innocence is written over his features – like a confession._

_Inexplicably, Lawliet finds himself leaning forward. Careful not to make any quick movements, he presses his lips to Light’s cheek, in a sort of protective motion._

_(I haven’t forgotten what you said last night. I heard you.)_

_Together, their skin is warm and dry. It’s like writing poetry for the sun, when he’d never had any use for either, before._

_It’s over within a moment, but he feels something strange radiating at every point; like the haze is giving way to a sort of clarity he never knew that he hadn’t been adorned with._

_He pulls away, the soft rustling of the handcuffs providing something of a sinister background to an otherwise calm scene. He releases his breath without knowing he’d been holding it, and when he inhales again, he imagines that he’s glowing._

_He’s moving away from the bed, beginning to climb off, when he hears, softly –_

_“Good morning, Ryuzaki.”_

_He turns._

_Light’s smirking at him, his eyes dancing with some sleepy sort of entertainment._

_Lawliet’s cheeks burn red._

_“Ah… Good morning, Light-kun.”_

_His hands aren’t shaking.  His hands never shake._

_What the hell kind of a game is he playing?]_

 

* * *

 

 

“Please make an announcement on the six o’clock news, in four days,” Kira’s voice commands them through the television.

Lawliet wants more than anything else to break his gaze from the screen, but he’s caught in the headlights.  It’s his duty to look – it’s not his job to turn away – but something seems to be screaming at him.  Maybe it’s the sense that he’s closer to death than he has been in six hundred years.

“I have prepared a video for whichever answer you may chose.”

Lawliet blinks, and the seconds peel away.

He hears a voice on one of the monitors.

“This just in!” a reporter calls, and his eyes flick to the other screens.  “A vehicle has just crashed into the Sakura TV studios!”

He smiles a bit.  “Well, that’s one way to get into the building without being seen,” he murmurs, bemused.  “But…who…”

At the edge of his consciousness – maybe –

_…Yagami?_

_But…_

They wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, the screens show the police arriving at the scene.

“We’re not alone in this,” Matsuda says faintly, pressing a hand to his forehead, murmuring to himself in spite of a lack of a reaction from Lawliet.  “There are still people within the police who will stand up against Kira.”

A pause.  Then –

“Mr. Aizawa,” Lawliet says, his voice soft. “You know Deputy Director Kitamura’s cell phone number, don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Matsuda, I told you not to call me….”

He sounds frustrated.

“No.  This is L, Deputy Director Kitamura.”

The Deputy Director breathes sharply.  Lawliet doesn’t stop to wait for anyone to catch up.

“I need you to do something for me,” he says, his voice urgent.  “Watch the news and you will see the police officers who are fighting hard to bring Kira to justice. If you don’t take control of them, as their superior, we’ll have a tragedy on our hands.”

“But we aren’t…to be involved in this case…” The Deputy Director sounds distressed.

Perhaps he’s watching the television. Because, only a moment later –

“…I understand, L.  Please advise me on how I should lead them.”

 

* * *

 

 

[ _They don’t speak, as they get ready in the morning. They rarely do._

_Lawliet stares at his reflection in the mirror, intensely regarding the grey hairs on the side of his head. He frowns, and he sees a handful of wrinkles on his forehead.  It shouldn’t be happening this fast, but he can still cover it if he messes with his hair in the proper way._

_Soichiro still doesn’t know._

_When he looks down, he imagines his hands are stained with invisible blood.  He knows they are._

_He glances sideways at Light, who’s brushing his teeth at the other side of the sink, his mouth full of toothpaste. Light catches his glance and flashes him a close-lipped smile, rolling his eyes slightly as he looks away as if to say nothing other than, of course._

_Light must know what he’s thinking, but he refuses to display fear.  Not during the daytime, at least._

_It’s just another reality they face._

_Between them, the handcuffs sway and gently knock against the countertops.  Lawliet sighs, and almost leans down to sit on the bathroom floor, waiting for Light to finish. He’s tired of standing; his legs don’t feel the quite the same as they used to.  He never tells Quillsh as much – wouldn’t want him to worry._

_He’s leaning down when, suddenly, Light is standing in front of him within split moments, grabbing his collar and pulling him up._

_“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispers._

_“Sitting down, Light-kun,” Lawliet says flatly. “Waiting.”_

_(I am depressed, Light-kun.  It’s a secret.)_

_Amber eyes meet deep silver, and Lawliet fights the urge to look away.  He’d never look away._

_(I am depressed, Light-kun, because I am here and you are here.)_

_Light flashes him a bright smile, apparently done brushing his teeth._

_(I am depressed, Light-kun, because I’m losing my case. I am dying for you and I am unable to finish my last case because you are everything I wanted and didn’t need.)_

_“Ready for today, Ryuzaki?” Light asks, releasing his grip on Lawliet’s shirt and instead casting a quick glance at the mirror to smooth his hair.  “Maybe today we’ll catch Kira.”  He jangles the handcuffs, as if to suggest victory when all they represent is defeat._

_(I am depressed, Light-kun, because I wanted you to be Kira.  I wanted you.)_

_Something pulls at his stomach, the way life only does for Light.  It was just as Beyond Birthday had warned him in a dream so long ago._

_(I am depressed, Light-kun.  I love you.  I shouldn’t. That’s a secret.)_

 

* * *

 

 

“Missed call from Detective Superintendent Yagami,” Quillsh says softly, flipping the phone to cast a quick glance at the screen.

“Call him back.  And give the phone to me,” Lawliet instructs, careful. 

The fingers of his hands look like bones, like marble.

When he picks up the phone, Soichiro is yelling. “Ryuzaki!” he says, his voice somewhat frantic.

“It’s me, Mr. Yagami,” Lawliet says quickly, staring at the screens as they blurred from his vision.  “So that was you, in the police van?”

“Yes,” Soichiro concedes, no amount of remorse in his tone. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’ve confiscated all the tapes, I’ll bring them to you.”

A pause.  Then –

“How are you doing?”

Lawliet is almost afraid to ask.

“I’m more than fine.”  Soichiro sounds borderline joyful – as though nothing in his life had ever adorned him with as much life.  “I feel more energetic than I ever have.  But – what do I do from here? I think going out from the front…would be dangerous.”

“Ah.  Yes. Wait just a moment.”

Lawliet lifts the phone in his other hand. “Deputy Director Kitamura,” he says quietly, “Chief Yagami is the one who crashed into the building.  Are you prepared?”

“As you requested.”

On the other phone –

“Mr. Yagami, just wait five more minutes. Then come out of the front entrance.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they collect Soichiro from the building, they are like stardust.  They are quietly victorious, if reluctantly so.

It’s a rescue.

 

* * *

 

 

Quillsh helps Soichiro into the room, allowing him to rest on his shoulders as a support when they walk.  Soichiro hands the bag of tapes to Lawliet, nodding gravely as he does so.

Lawliet picks a tape at random from the bag. It’s simplistic, black with red lines etched across it, seemingly darkening when held in his fingertips.

_Mr. Yagami…_

_This won’t be in vain._

He looks carefully at the contents of the bag, picking up the packaging in which the tapes were apparently initially mailed; according to the markings, it's from Osaka, a fact which causes his breath to hitch.

_But Kira can control his victims before they die…_

_Even so, he could’ve had it delivered from Osaka without going there, himself..._

“Mr. Aizawa,” he asks politely, folding the contents back into the bag.  “Can you take this to the lab?”

Aizawa appears next to him with tired eyes and tired hands and a tired mind, but he obliges.  “I have a lot of contacts in the lab.  I’ll be sure to check this out thoroughly," he says quietly, staring at Lawliet evenly.

“Ah.  Yes. Please do.  I’ll check the contents of the duplicate tapes.”

Inexplicably, he imagines Beyond Birthday, laughing in a corner of the room.  His own dangerous reflection, watching him and taunting him – asking, what’ll you do next?

_The perfect crime…_

_Beyond, it was never yours._

 

* * *

 

 

_[She wants to sleep with Light.  Not just sleep with him – but, sleep with him._

_Light wakes Lawliet in the middle of the night, perhaps unintentionally, from kicking during his nightmares. He’s saying her name, saying no repeatedly._

_“Light-kun,” Lawliet whispers softly, pushing his back against the headboard and arching slightly.  “Light.”  He presses a hand on his shoulder, trying to draw him from the recesses of his own mind._

_“Light-kun.”_

_Startled, Light wakes._

_He looks scared, when he first opens his eyes – but he looks at Lawliet, and the fear seems to melt off of him._

_“I don’t want to sleep with her,” he mumbles, almost inarticulate._

_Almost all of his hair looks silver in the moonlight._

_They can pretend._

_“Ah?”_

_“I…don’t want to sleep with anyone.”_

_“You’re in a bed with me, Light-kun.”_

_“Not quite that….” He narrows his eyes, and Lawliet fights to remain impartially unamused by Light’s fatigue with perpetual literalism._

_“It was just a nightmare,” Lawliet says dismissively. “You should sleep. Maybe… Ah, maybe we’ll catch Kira later today.  You won't be able to catch Kira if you're not well rested..”_

_“You’re right.”_

_Lawliet tells himself he wouldn’t be jealous if he slept with her.  It would matter nothing to him, even if Light were his One.  Light wasn’t his possession, nor was he Light’s._

_But still… Something whispers in the back of his mind._

_Was this what they had all spoken of? Something beautiful? It just felt like something broken._

_If he were going to fall in love, he’d had six hundred years to pick anyone else._

_But, Light Yagami…_

_It was always going to be Light Yagami._

_(Whether or not he were Kira.)_

_They were the summaries of everything they’d done up until this point.  He’s losing his case, he’s losing his life - and gaining something inexplicable only by entirely submitting to losing._

_But tonight, it’s Light who rests his head on Lawliet’s lap._

_Lawliet bites his lip, uncertain of what to do at first when Light curls up to his chest, closing his eyes and apparently resting to sleep.  He settles at first for not breathing, only submitting to the need for air when he began to feel dizzy._

_Carefully, he lays a hand on Light’s back._

_His mind races with knowledge of anatomy and physiology – the names of all the muscles, visualizing the way blood was pumping its way through Light’s veins – but it doesn’t take him long to realize that his approach, drowning in details, was again obstructing the thought that he might need to, in fact, breathe._

_(Can I tell you a secret, Kira? I wanted to meet you.)_

_He bites his lip._

_(Can I tell you a secret, Light Yagami? I want to love you. I am scared.)_

_(Can I tell you a secret, whoever you are? Both of you. I think I am supposed to die with you.)_

_If he looks at his hands for too long, they look like dust, and nothing more._

 

* * *

 

_You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid._


	11. Dusk, Through Narrow Streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawliet doesn’t dare move. His pulse is beating incessantly in his ears, his skin uncomfortably itching to be touched. The sun is gone and so the night is indecipherable, hanging somewhere between the promise of stars and their fall – it’s easy enough to swallow feelings, but he’s not sure that he wants to keep running. Light’s sweeping declaration is sentimental, such that it almost sounds forged, crafted for the sake of manipulation, and he doesn’t want to allow himself to be manipulated, but it’s his One speaking. They’re on the same plane – they never speak the word One, but it’s implied. They couldn’t possibly part. Light with his silver-tongue and his promises and intoxicating eyes, Lawliet on the other side with his defense. With hands, slipping to sand, telling secrets about sin, blinking away into some dreamscape with surprise.
> 
> (Maybe tomorrow, we'll catch Kira.)

“Ryuzaki?  What’s on them?”

The afternoon is lazy, but dangerously – deceptively – so. Even the air around them hangs in disbelief of the way time slips by, with blues and yellows painting the sky as the day breaks and breaks again; to Lawliet, it’s almost surreal, as though he’s still hanging in a dream.  He didn’t sleep the night before, but when he checked the mirror just to stand and stretch his legs, he found that there was another grey hair on the side of his head. The clock was ticking.

“They’re very interesting tapes,” Lawliet replies dryly, tilting his head to the side to hide the way his thoughts, in reality, threaten to disintegrate into nothing more than mere seconds slipping from all of their fingers.  He’s accustomed to hiding things, naturally. 

He leans backward, idle in casting a glance to the task force slowly meandering to his chair.  “If the police had said yes and cooperated with Kira, tape number three was to be aired.  And if it were a no, the fourth tape would have been aired," he says.  "Tape three details the conditions for cooperating – essentially, to broadcast more criminals, especially those who had hurt people, or criminals who had abused those weaker than themselves.  Regardless of how severe the crimes were.  And Kira would play the judge in all of this.”

The indulgent humming of the television static provides a fitting background.  Since finding Light Yagami, there always seems to be something buzzing at the edges of Lawliet’s consciousness, but it’s easy enough to ignore, at least in the immediacy of the moment.  “Furthermore, as proof the police are cooperating,” he murmurs, “he said that he wanted the top brass from the NPA and L to appear on TV and announce that they will cooperate with him.” He fights the urge to smile a bit, ironically. “In other words, have the top brass and me show our faces, so that if we do anything suspicious, he can kill us.”

“So…what if we had answered no?” says Soichiro carefully, wringing his hands.  The concern drips from his voice, heavy and broken like a scar.

“Ah.  Basically the same thing, but expressed differently,” Lawliet says in turn. “Mr. Yagami, the answer is no, of course.  Please allow Sakura TV to air the fourth video.”  _Let the games continue._

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet reaches for the remote control, and lazily flicks his fingers over the buttons; they spent the past few hours in silence, and now dying sunlight bleeds in through the windows, shedding its essence like gold.  _Gold. Like Light Yagami’s eyes._ He’s caught in the bleeding sun, too.

“The broadcast is about to begin,” he mutters to the task force, leaning in his chair closer to the television as he flips to the Sakura TV channel.  He barely notices as the others crowd around him, as he’s immediately shaken and focused in all capacities by the very unbidden idea of Light Yagami casting a secretive smile at him as they begin to watch.

_Does he know?  Is this what this is about?_

_We’re both going to die, anyway._

On the TV screen, Kira’s logo appears almost immediately, sinister and elegant in all capacities.  “I think it is unfortunate,” a cool voice says calmly, chillingly both with and without regard for an audience, “that your answer is no. The police have answered that they still wish to fight with me.  So I will first take the life of the director general of the NPA.  Or, I may take the life of L, who is leading the investigation. The director general, or L… Who will you hand out as a sacrifice for not cooperating to create a peaceful world?”

A dark hint of laughter ripples, chilling Lawliet to the bone, although he’d never admit it.

“Please decide in four days.”

Four days is a lot of time, when your life is ending. _Is it really you speaking, Light Yagami?_

 

* * *

 

 

_[One night, they watch the sun set. The sun rises and dies every day, but they rarely set aside the time to watch.  Perhaps it reminds Light too much of himself, because the first thing he does is hold his hand up to the light so that it flows around his fingers like water.  Like he is holding something tangible against the intangible, and Lawliet simply watches, narrowing his eyes._

_They sit close to each other on the couch. Lawliet notices with a fair degree of detachment the way that Light’s arm is pressed closely to his own, their hands lying close together; he ignores the way that the bullets of his own words choke in his throat, dance like butterflies at the base of his spine._

_(Light Yagami is my One, and I am watching a sunset with him.)_ _He notices that he has started to think of his One in terms of Light Yagami, and not as Kira.  The deception is dangerous, leaves him dizzy but ultimately calm as he grounds himself with his hands._

_Neither of them says a word.  They aren’t the types to be inclined to remark about what a beautiful night it is – they’re silent, collectively, until Light suddenly stands, grabbing the chain with him.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, his eyes immediately brightening as he casts a quick glance around the room._

_“Light-kun.”  (Kira.  If you want a name game, I can do that, Light-kun.)_

_“Let’s dance.”  Light smiles, tilting his head to the side.  He’s cast in the red of the day fading in through the windows that span the entirety of the wall.  Everything is tired crimson, their words as soft and gossamer as if they’d been crafted from poisoned lace, all breath and no weight and no substance._

_Lawliet narrows his eyes, instinctively raising the thumb of his free hand to his lips like a safeguard.  “Dance, Light-kun?” he asks coolly, attempting – and ultimately failing – to conceal the note of his voice that sounds almost childishly excited. (Ridiculous.  We have a case to solve.  You are a case to solve.)_

_“We can go back to working right after,” Light insists, something hardening in his voice.  “Your computer isn’t going anywhere.”  (Resolve.) He steps forward and, carefully, grabs Lawliet’s hands – his palms are warm and dry, fingers deftly wrapping between Lawliet’s and tugging him to his feet from the relative comfort of the couch._

_“But there’s no music, Light-kun.” (A most excellent plan, indeed.)_

_“We don’t need it.”_

_Lawliet stands relatively far from him. He doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to notice the way Light smells like rain, doesn’t want to acknowledge the way that having his hands held strongly resembles something he had lost centuries ago standing outside the gates of Wammy’s House, like a space were being filled.  A case finally being solved after gathering cobwebs and dust.  Such a line of thinking is, naturally, preposterous – or it would be, if the suspect whose heart was beating just in front of him weren’t the physical incarnation, the very universal suggestion, that his mind could afford to be completed by another human being._

_Light pulls him closer, a small smile tugging at his lips. Inexplicably, Lawliet straightens his back – he and Light are almost at eye-level, their hands clasped together at their sides, their chests almost touching.  The sun pours in, blissfully unaware as it slowly slips away – sans skin, sans teeth, sans lips, sans everything.  (Does it know it’s dying, every day?)_

_“Isn’t this nice?” Light asks quietly, as though he were suddenly caught off guard by the reckless nature of his own boldness. Lawliet is certain that if he concentrated, he could hear Light’s heart beating through his shirt. Tempted by the idea, he carefully releases one of Light’s hands and places a hand to his chest._

_“It’s rather inappropriate, actually. Your heart is beating rather quickly, Light-kun.  It makes me wonder –"_

_“Don’t say it raises my Kira percentage.”_

_(No.  It makes me wonder if you are actually my One, and if we aren’t some cosmic joke, quite literally dancing into someone’s palm.)  He bites his tongue._

_Light reciprocates by reaching out, hesitating just before his laying his fingertips at the curve of Lawliet’s neck, and then outstretching their hands, clasped tightly together, in a loose embrace to the side. “I trust you’ve done some dancing before, Ryuzaki?”_

_“You may be surprised.”_

_In spite of their postures, they seem to be frozen. Seconds fall around them like stars tumbling to their feet, and they don’t move.  Lawliet is taken aback by the intensity of Light’s expression – his eyes are like wine, like something he’ll drink too deeply of and find himself lost.  His lips are like secrets, like bullets, like paper._

_“It’s easy,” Light says, and his voice sounds somehow small even in the grandeur of their space.  (He’s shaking.)  “Follow my lead.”_

_“I know it’s easy, Light-kun.”_

_Light shoots him a deliberate glance, his gaze flicking up from the ground and their feet._

_“Here.  This way. Step back.  And then to the side.”_

_“Ah.  Ballroom dancing.” (Where did you learn this from?)_

_They move silently, as though there are words left to be said but neither lingers in the temptation or longs to yield to the unspoken weight of the other.  Light’s steps are quick and deft, but Lawliet is determined to keep up with him. Thus is the very paradoxical nature of their relationship, as they are in every way parallel and perpendicular. So they spin, and spin, and Lawliet pretends to not notice the way that the sun slips away._

_(Don’t be poetic.  Say it as it is.  His name is Light Yagami, but his name is also Kira.  You might be falling for Light Yagami’s mind, but Kira and L are enemies.)_

_“Ryuzaki.”_

_They freeze, and Lawliet realizes that they hadn’t looked at each other; he, at least, had been staring at their hands, locked at the side as if it were a novel phenomenon he had never before encountered. The hands clasped together are the ones joined by the handcuffs.  He narrows his eyes and meets Light’s gaze, unshaking._

_ _

_Artwork by[Zenthisoror](http://zenthisoror.tumblr.com/post/134477255071/its-easyfollow-my-lead-i-know-its-easy). Do not repost without permission._

 

 

_Light smiles a little, and raises his hand to the side of Lawliet’s head, fingers tangling in his hair.  His eyes dart, if only for a split moment, to see the very epithet, the synecdoche of what keeps them together and divides them as surely as the hands of a clock stretching and yawning in the space – the grey hair at Lawliet’s temples, the catalyst for his disappearance._

_(You always say you’re falling in love with his mind. But what about falling for him, as a whole?  A person isn’t one component, naturally.)_

_“When this case is over, and when we catch Kira,” Light says, his voice firm and quiet, “what happens after that?”_

_“That depends, Light-kun,” Lawliet says, his hand tightening around Light’s.  Their fingers are a jumbled, knotted mess, inseparable even if they sought to pull apart.    (I wanted it to be you. I don’t want it to be you. But if Kira’s consciousness was transferred… What if you become Kira again?)  “I shall begin to solve other cases again, I suppose. It’s rather unusual for me to halt everything to work on one case alone.”  He had delegated such responsibilities to Mihael and Mail, back at Wammy’s House. It’s easy enough to think of the future in terms of concrete facts; that’s how he always operates._

_Light hesitates.  “When you solve cases again,” he says softly, “I want to help.”_

_“I’m not used to working with a partner, I’m afraid. I can work alone. I’ve done it for long enough.”_

_The words, oddly redundant and empty, spill from Lawliet’s mouth like a pre-recorded track, unbidden. He’s practiced the speech in his mind for long enough, like a safeguard._

_“As long as I’m here, you’ll never be alone. Remember?”  Light smiles slightly and shakes their hands, still clasped tightly together, all fire and no longer entirely dry._

_“I’ll remove the handcuffs when I’m certain you’re not Kira.”  (When.) He catches his own breath, but stifles the pang of shock as it pulses through his heart, electric and toxic. (Don’t make promises you can’t keep.)_

_“Or when you’re certain I am,” Light adds, a bit of an ironic smirk reaching his eyes.  He’s too adept at reading Lawliet’s thoughts.  “But it won’t happen that way.  Maybe tomorrow we’ll catch Kira.  And even when we do, you aren’t going to be alone.”_

_Lawliet thinks of Beyond Birthday, who – whether directly or not – had always made a similar promise, the idea of crafting a perfect crime, the only one to go down in history; the perfect crime for a perfect detective, both compounded and built on the premise of time.  Light promises something similar – but not the perfect crime, he promises that together they’ll be the perfect team. On the same side of the clock, not opposite sides.  “What could compel such certainty?” Lawliet asks, although it’s an empty question. Again, the hint of childish fervor sneaks into his tone, against his will.  What further answer could he possibly want? They’re both aging._

_“Would you hate it if I told you that you complete me?” Light answers smoothly, as though he’d been thinking the sentiment for a long while and finally was propelled into voicing his thoughts. (It’s desire driving this, nothing else. He desires you; you desire him, too.)_

_“Do you think before you speak?” Lawliet asks evenly in turn, but the words fall from his lips in all the wrong ways and the tone of his own voice surprises him._

_“More than you suspect.  And that’s not an answer, Ryuzaki.”_

_(I know.)_

_“You’re going to finish university,” says Lawliet carefully.  “And follow in your father’s footsteps, I presume.  Someone with such a strong sense of justice couldn’t bear to do anything else, other than attempt to save the world.”  He pictures Light with his forehead pressed against the glass of a car window, gazing at buildings as they pass by, eyes wide and bright. Maybe he’d work in the city, fall in love with the bright outlines of skyscrapers kissing the stars. He’d fall in love with trying to save the world, for as many years as he had left._

_“But will I be with you?”_

_Light is insistent, and he untangles his hand from the side, using both hands to grip Lawliet’s shoulders.   “Please, Ryuzaki,” he whispers, leaning forward so that there is only the space of a breath between them. “I want to be…with you.”_

_Lawliet doesn’t dare move.  His pulse is beating incessantly in his ears, his skin uncomfortably itching to be touched.  The sun is gone and so the night is indecipherable, hanging somewhere between the promise of stars and their fall – it’s easy enough to swallow feelings, but he’s not sure that he wants to keep running.  Light’s sweeping declaration is sentimental, such that it almost sounds forged, crafted for the sake of manipulation, and he doesn’t want to allow himself to be manipulated, but it’s his One speaking.  They’re on the same plane – they never speak the word One, but it’s implied.  They couldn’t possibly part. Light with his silver-tongue and his promises and intoxicating eyes, Lawliet on the other side with his defense. With hands, slipping to sand, telling secrets about sin, blinking away into some dreamscape with surprise._

_“I believe you,” he says in turn._

_(I have loved you for years.  I was born to love you, and to hate you.)_

_In an instant they close the gap between them, huddled in a quiet embrace as the moon seeps in through the windows, paling in comparison to the scent of rain.  They are not dust, not soot, not stars, but by the end, they’ll burn up from the very principle of the way they were crafted to live and die._

_They work silently after that.  Later in the night, Light wakes when Lawliet is still listlessly clicking through his laptop.  He sees the screen but doesn’t register it.  As for Light, tears are running down his face as he reaches for Lawliet. He mutters something about being cornered, against a fence, staring down the barrels of guns. Another crimson sunset. Lawliet, trapped in a state of dreaming himself, leans forward and carefully kisses Light’s eyelids and eyelashes, wiping the tears away with skeleton fingertips and humming wordlessly from his throat.  It’s something neither should remember in the morning, precious more than an expression of comfort. Veil of protection. How strange, that he should reach for Lawliet.  The most toxic choice – poisoning himself and Lawliet alike with the uncertainty of the case.]_

 

* * *

 

 

_Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass._

 

* * *

 

 

“Ryuzaki, it’s as you thought,” Soichiro says grimly as he steps through the door.  The walls are pale yellow in the gaze of the sun, and the hotel air is stale. The ripped, striped old couches offer no comfort. “Leaders of several countries have discussed the situation, and they want the real L to appear on the TV.”

Lawliet nods, noting the precise feel of the ceramic mug pressed between his fingers.  “That would be the most right and reasonable choice,” he concedes, raising an eyebrow delicately and nodding in turn.  “Well, we still have three days, so let’s think of a measure that will prevent all that.”

He places the mug on the table in front of them, leaning instead to grab a plate full of cake.  He casts a quick glance at Matsuda and Aizawa, seated uncomfortably on the sofa next to Lawliet’s chair.  “It would be most unfortunate,” he murmurs, “if I’m killed by someone who’s jumped onto Kira’s bandwagon.”  He takes a bite of cake, anticipating the shock filling the room.

It's Soichiro who speaks first.  “Ryuzaki, what do you mean?” 

“There is a high probability that this Kira is a fake.” Lawliet pauses.  “No.  We should call him the Second Kira.”

“The Second Kira?” breathes Aizawa – the opposite of his usual fireworks, quietly registering the shock.  The task force seems to simultaneously lean towards Lawliet’s chair, all bitten nails and nervous spines.  “W-why do you think there’s a Second Kira?”

“First of all, there are the premeditated victims.” Lawliet sets the plate down, and curls into his usual position, thumb at the corner of his mouth. He rather enjoys the unraveling of such theories.  “They were used to convince the TV station employees that he’s Kira.  Those two victims were only featured in women’s magazines and on daytime talk shows.  The real Kira has no such need to prove himself with such insignificant people. But in the Second Kira’s view, he couldn’t use a criminal that the real Kira might kill before his prediction.”

“Hmm.  Ryuzaki…” Soichiro shifts in his seat, pushing his glasses up on his nose. He exudes visible concern. “What are the chances that there is a second Kira?”

“This time,” Lawliet says, bowing his head slightly, “it’s more than a seventy-percent chance.  I don’t like the way he does things.  It’s not like Kira.”

“Not like Kira?” Matsuda cuts in, his voice a hushed whisper.

“Kira has always avoided innocent victims, aside from those who have tried to catch him.”  Lawliet’s mind flicks to Naomi Misora, and he inadvertently thinks of Beyond Birthday – not innocent.  Broken.   _You're not innocent, either._  “If we catch one Kira, I think we’ll get a hint as to how we can catch the other.”

He pauses, the weight of the moment keen in his fingertips. He’s suddenly conscious of his hair, of the way he knows his skin is there, of the way he might spontaneously look into a mirror and find his reflection changed.  “Mr. Yagami,” he asks, his voice a low purr. “May I ask your son to cooperate in this investigation?”

A definite shockwave, a pulse spanning the space of the room.  _I know_.  “Does that mean he’s no longer a suspect?” Soichiro says, his voice rising, perhaps hopefully.

“No, I can’t say he’s been entirely cleared. But I could use the help of his deductive skills,” Lawliet says in turn.  It’s all too easy to gloss over the secretive undertones of such a request – too easy to bite back from screaming, look at me, like the rest of the world does. Look.  It’s easy to hide, for now, that his bones are gravestones. To dirt, they all fall.

Soichiro lowers his head, his shoulders slipping forward. “If my son wants to cooperate with you,” he says softly, “I have no reason to stop you.”

In older times, a suitor would always ask the father for permission to court his partner, as Ones, if the father were still around. A silly, antiquated tradition, but the irony of the moment is not lost on Lawliet.  “Thank you,” he murmurs, a new thought crossing his mind. “But… Please keep it a secret that this current Kira might be a fake.  Please make it seem as if we are chasing the same Kira.”

_Surely, surely, the sun sets.  It always dies, it always does, so that the moon can live._

 

* * *

 

 

_None of us would die if we didn’t fall in love._

_Or...._

 

* * *

 

 

When Light Yagami walks into task force headquarters the next evening – the downtrodden, golden-gilded room with the torn sofas and haunted expressions – the first thing L Lawliet notices is that Light, although smiling coolly and his posture riddled nonchalance, appears angrier than before – like a tempest had ripped its way through him and instead of destroying him left him hardened.  His gaze is carefully narrowed, and when he smiles at Soichiro and the others, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he casts a quick glance at Lawliet, something dark crosses over his expression for a split moment.  _He knows._   Blood rushes to Lawliet’s palms, but he doesn’t let the dizziness spread to his thoughts.   _It was inevitable._

Light crosses the room and stands in front of Lawliet, nothing obviously impolite in his face. “Ryuga,” he says calmly, and outstretches a hand.

Lawliet offers his hand, too, and Light takes it. “Yagami.  Thank you.”  The space between them pounds like a heartbeat.

Light’s grip is rather too tight, and Lawliet feels electricity slipping up his arm; he doesn’t stop to let himself think about the implications, so he carefully ignores the rush and breathes deeply through his nose.  _Calm, collected.  Logical._   Absently, he murmurs again, “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Light says, and perhaps it’s Lawliet’s imagination, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of Light’s jaw, clenched tightly with the curve of his chin.  “We both want to catch Kira.” 

He doesn’t let go of Lawliet’s hand; he just grips with increasing tightness.  Their hands clasped together, blood racing in wrists like the seconds flying from a clock - it's enough to make Lawliet lose control, but he wouldn't succumb to weakness.

“Please.  Call me Ryuzaki, here.”

“Ah.  I see.”

_Don’t let go.  Let go. Don’t let._

Light drops the grip, and watches as Lawliet turns to face the other members of the task force.  They introduce themselves by their pseudonyms, and the words are nothing but static to Lawliet’s ears.  He tells himself his hands aren’t shaking, and they aren’t – but the sun is pouring in through the window as it whispers its last minutes of the day, and it rings more sharply than bells.  _A surer funeral than any other._

“In that case, would it be alright if I’m Light Asahi?” Light says, reaching out to almost imperceptibly brush Lawliet’s arm. _I’m not shivering._

“Please do.”  A pause.  “I will call you Light here.”

Ah.   _Asahi is rather an ironic choice_ – the name meaning morning sunlight, the day breaking atop their heads like an old anecdote.  _Always one for irony, are you, Light?_

“Now, to business,” Lawliet says, glancing up and refusing to break his vision from Light’s – peculiarly, glaringly obvious – eye contact. “Take a look at our current information on Kira.  Come with me.”

He ignores the urge to grab Light’s hand and pull him along, as he begins to pace towards the television in the corner of the room. “I’d like you to examine this video which was sent to the television station, but was never revealed to the public,” he drawls on, not caring to throw a glance over his shoulder to see if the rest of the party decided to follow him.   “Taking any materials or notes from this room is forbidden.”

“I understand,” Light says evenly, taking a seat in front of the television. 

Lawliet stares at him, and uses the remote to turn on the screen without bothering to actually look at it; his suspect commands the majority of his attention.  “We shall now begin.”  The faintest trace of something acidic laces his tone.

_There’s something amazing about Light’s deductive skills. He should be able to deduce some matter of importance by watching the tape; wait and see.  He’ll guess there’s a Second Kira._

_It’s no wonder he’s your One.  Your intellectual match.  Or…_

_If he leaves things as they are, I will die._

_We’ll both die, won’t we, Light Yagami?_

Lawliet watches as Light stares intently at the screen, the video flashing before all of their eyes. When the tape is nearly finished, he walks closer to the chair, hunching over more drastically for something of a dramatic effect.  _Play on the eccentricity, your mask._   “What do you think of it, Light?” he asks softly, raising a thumb to his lips.  “Did you get something from it?”  He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but something of a teasing lilt guides his words.

Light turns, and when he does, he catches Lawliet’s gaze within a moment.  He narrows his eyes instinctively, as if disgusted, but only for a second; he quickly smooths his expression, a relaxed smiling jumping to his lips. If Lawliet weren’t Light’s One, perhaps he wouldn’t be as attuned to the nuances of every single moment as it passed through Light’s chest – but he is, and the burden of it rests on his shoulders, replaces the blood in his veins, especially as he watches the way Light digs his fingers into the side of the chair.  _He’s Kira.  He has to be.  But..._

Light pushes himself off the seat, never for a moment shattering the invisible space he peers through between himself and Lawliet. “There may be more than one individual with Kira’s power,” he says, his tone almost grave. 

“Kira’s power?” Soichiro calls from behind them, but neither turns to look at the other members of the task force. Lawliet’s expression is blank, wide-eyed, but Light is clenching his jaw again and they are all closed fists, all of them, buried in chest cavities and dirt. 

“Light – what do you mean?” repeats Soichiro from behind, his words a confused cry.

“There’s a good chance that this is not the Kira the world has known up until now,” Light says, almost absently, tearing his gaze from Lawliet.  He raises a thumb, pointing at the television screen.  “Up to now, Kira’s never used suspects like these to announce killings. And if Kira needs a name and a face to kill, isn’t it strange he was able to kill the detective and officers who happened to rush into the television-station building?”  He tucks his hands into his pockets, and again looks deliberately at Lawliet.  Accusatory, almost, as if to say, you know this.  _You won’t trick me._

“It’s the same,” Aizawa breathes, his tone somewhat strangled. 

Matsuda is, apparently, equally stunned. “It’s exactly the same deducation as L – I mean, Ryuzaki,” he mutters, nervously running a hand over the curves of his knuckles. 

“That’s right, Light,” Lawliet says, his voice deadpan as he watches, unblinking.  “I also think we are looking at a second Kira.”  _Incredible_.

_Imagine if we were to work together…_

“So you knew, Ryuga? – I mean, Ryuzaki,” says Light coolly, bowing his head so his eyes are hidden.  He seems to laugh a little as he crosses his arms. “You tested me, knowing that, didn’t you?”

“Ah.  I didn’t test you.  It’s simply not convincing if I’m the only one who argues that there is a Second Kira.” Lawliet pauses, a breathless feeling racing in his chest.  “With you coming to the same conclusions as I did, my theory becomes more believable. You’ve been of great assistance to me, Light. Thank you so very much.”

Light glances up, his eyes dark.

_So this was not you, Light Yagami. This was not your voice on the tape. But you are still Kira._

_And still my One._

_I’ll condemn him to death, if that’s what it takes._

“So it’s been decided, then,” Lawliet continues evenly. “We first have to stop the second Kira. He obviously sympathizes with the first Kira, and is not very bright.  I think he’ll obey the real Kira.  So if we make a fake message from the real Kira, there is a good chance that we can stop him.”

He holds his breath as Light paces closer to him, their arms almost brushing.  He knows. “As I expected of you, _Ryuzaki,_ ” Light says, his voice dancing dangerously at the edge of the name. “I also thought that would be the best idea.  We’ll have to be careful, though.  We might run out of _time_.”

Light’s entire body shifts visibly at the careful word.  Time.  _He knows._ There’s no mistaking it.  For all the other people in the room, the task force and all of the ghosts standing past Lawliet’s shoulders, it may as well be the two of them hanging in the balance, streetlights and cityscapes bleeding onto them.  _Damn you._

 _Well, that decides it._ “Light,” Lawliet says, his voice eerily calm, “I would like you to play the part of the real Kira.”

They, as humans, are easily contrived and molded, particularly by their own hands; thus is the thought that dominates Lawliet’s mind when he sees Light’s shocked expression, his eyes widening with something like fear.  Astonishment, dizzying, enough off of to get drunk and lose control, when that is anything but the veritable case.  _He is lying. This is fake._   “M-me?” stutters Light, recoiling from Lawliet.

“Yes.  With your genius, you should be able to do it.”  Acidic, bitter.  The taste is reluctant. _It shouldn’t have been this way._  “At any rate, you’re correct. We don’t have much time to waste.”

He does the same trick as Light; he places a careful emphasis on that venomous word, letting it roll off his tongue with all the deliberate causality of a mask.  Judging by the way Light’s eyes flash – the way he seems to flinch – he noticed. _He knows I know. Are you going to dare speak of this, Light Yagami?  What will you do now?_

“Could you,” Lawliet continues listlessly, as though nothing had changed, “script a message from Kira, to air on tonight’s news?” He runs a thumb over his lips, fighting back a smile. 

_I planned this, all along._

Light’s hands bunch into fists.

“Of course, Ryuzaki.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Love is an ailment, and you and I are standing on the edge of a cliff, vertiginous, dizzyingly and fatally ill._

_It’ll kill us, whether we have it or we don’t._

_It’ll kill us both._

 

* * *

 

 

“Is this alright, Ryuzaki?”

Light’s voice is smooth – charming, even, as he calls Lawliet to his side, long after the sun has fallen past the horizon. He’s slouched in the chair, and it’s just the two of them in the room.  He loftily rests his hand on the back spine of the seat, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly as Lawliet glances back at him to collect the speech. “I think I’ve portrayed Kira convincingly,” he murmurs, outstretching an arm to gesture at the paper. _His palm is open._

Lawliet, never allowing Light to leave the corner of his eye, collects the speech, holding the edges of it between his thumbs and pointer fingers so as not to leave fingerprints on it; six hundred years instructed him that such a habit is usually beneficial.  His mind is racing as he scans it.

“I think this is very good,” he murmurs as he finishes reading, “although, if you don’t remove the part that says, ‘you’re free to kill L,’ I’ll die.”

He’s faintly amused, but hides it from his expression as he glances up from the paper to catch Light’s reaction. Nice try, Light Yagami.

Light leans back in the chair, suddenly pressing a hand to his chest, right over his heart – he laughs, flashing a large smile at Lawliet.  “My mistake,” he says, voice pleasantly ringing, almost seductively.  “Well.  When pretending to be Kira, I thought that he would demand you be killed.  Just a bit of a joke.”  He’s smiling, but it’s like he’s baring teeth.  “You can change that to whatever you like.”

“Ah.  I see. No worries about that,” Lawliet returns coolly, biting the inside of his mouth.  “I suspected you’d be able to imagine a thing or two about me dying.”  _In whatever capacity._ It's a petty quip, but he can't resist.

Light glances over at him, as though surprised, but quickly covers the emotion – even if it is the two of them, he’s not apt to discuss what they both already know.  “It’ll be a long time before that happens, I’m sure,” he fires back, leaning forward and running his eyes over Lawliet appraisingly, from his feet to his temples. “Unless Kira gets to you first.”

“And maybe he already has,” Lawliet says sharply, raising a hand to his hair as if to suggest the meaning implicit in their banter.

Light is half-smiling, but it’s like a vice when he does. “Say, Ryuzaki,” he says carefully, almost conversationally, “have you ever considered Kira’s age, or if he’s started aging yet?  Considering a lot of the criminals he’s killed have all been ones that haven’t received the aging catalyst.  What do you suppose it means?”

 _What are you playing at, Light Yagami?_   “I suspect he’s someone rather young and immature – with a mistaken and childish sense of justice, thinking that everything can be solved by killing these criminals that might have lived for longer if they hadn’t been stricken with heart attacks," Lawliet answers honestly. "I suppose Kira wants to cleanse society, and, given the power, didn’t shy from the challenge.”

“So you think Kira is someone ordinary, who stumbled onto the power.”

“Naturally.  They’re rather unlucky.  Childish, and unlucky – someone who hates to lose.” 

Lawliet pauses.

“I’d know, as I’m much the same.”

“You? Unlucky?”

Light’s body language shifts; he’s intrigued.

“You might be surprised.”  _I met you, didn’t I?  I was doing just fine._

Most people would feel blessed to meet their Ones – it was what they all were taught was the greatest treasure in the world, to love and to be loved.  The necessary step for life moving forward.  But at the moment, Lawliet is filled with nothing more than a strange apprehension. The idea that death is more than an idea, and that he’s catapulted towards it, just like any other one of Kira’s victims is strangely surreal.

Before Light can add any other witty, vaguely alluring, or toxic questions, Lawliet turns away with the speech.  “Thank you, Light-kun,” he says, the honorary tasting strangely on his tongue, “this should be fine.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

The members of the task force return not long afterwards.

Lawliet is haunted by the very idea that if he were someone else, and if Light were someone else, maybe they’d have engaged differently when everyone else was gone.  The idea pulls at something peculiar in his stomach, but he resists the temptation of succumbing to such thoughts.  _It’s not as though I’d go dancing with him.  He wants me dead.  I want him dead, too._

He gladly turns the script over to Aizawa. “Mr.  Aihara, the script is ready.  I leave it to you,” he says deliberately, using the pseudonym with care.

“All right.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Now, we wait._

 

* * *

 

 

_Your words are a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path._


	12. Lifting and Dropping a Question on Your Plate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that night, he falls asleep in the bath, against his best intentions; his hands grip the side of the tub unrelentingly. He dreams Light is smiling at him, holding a fistful of blue roses and bowing his head ever so slightly; Lawliet grabs the roses, ignoring the way they stab his fingertips open, only so he can throw them aside and pull Light closer to him.

_And indeed there will be time  
_ _To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”  
_ _Time to turn back and descend the stair,  
_ _With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —  
_ _(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)  
_ _My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,  
_ _My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —  
_ _(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)_

 

\----oOo----

 

**_THE SECRET OF JAPAN’S MYSTERIOUSLY LOW CRIME RATE_ **

_Japan is often considered slightly odd compared to other countries. Its economic success, distinct culture, and disciplined population has made Japan rather unique, and produced one of the lowest[crime rates](http://www.nationmaster.com/country-info/profiles/Japan/Crime) in the world. The country has 127 million people, yet street crime is almost unheard of; the [murder rate](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_intentional_homicide_rate) is only lower in tiny Monaco and Palau, and the use of drugs is minimal compared to other industrialized countries. The Japanese intolerance to illicit drugs  – seen as evidence of bad personal character – were demonstrated with the [national outrage](http://www.theguardian.com/world/2008/sep/03/japan) the followed when two well-known sumo wrestlers tested positive for marijuana in 2002._

**_JAPAN: MANY PEOPLE, LOW CRIMES_ **

_A Japanese friend of mine explained that going to prison would be an unimaginable social stigma for most people, leading to a widespread public perception that crimes are mostly[committed](http://www.japantimes.co.jp/community/2013/07/08/issues/police-foreign-crime-wave-falsehoods-fuel-racism/) by foreigners. The belief that almost all Japanese are law-abiding also creates a system that routinely treats suspects as guilty until proven otherwise. In such a hierarchical and deferential society, suspects face enormous pressure to cooperate with the investigators and admitting guilt, leading to a conviction rate in the courts of [more than 99%. ](http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-20810572) The criminal justice system is founded on a strong belief that the criminal must repent for his crime – not simply being punished the law – and Japanese prisons are well-known (or notorious) for their strict discipline and order._

_It is an undisputed fact that Japan has achieved a remarkably_

_safe society. compared to other industrialized countries, and they incarcerate far fewer than for instance the UK (with a prisoner rate 3 times higher) or the US (13 times higher). Yet it is also a carefully maintained image that ignores many darker aspect of the Japanese society. Its modern surface often doesn’t extend to social attitudes towards women in this male-dominated culture. Unlike the rare violent crimes, sexual assaults are said to be widespread and severely underreported. The existence of[chikan](https://angrygaijin.wordpress.com/tag/sexual-assault-in-japan/) (“perverts”, meaning men groping women in public) is a massive problem and has led to the creation of “women-only” carriages in most major cities. Japanese police are also criticized for failing to take victims of sexual crimes seriously time and again as a result of either chauvinist bias or an inability to investigate such crimes._

_What are most disturbing are however arguments that the low crime is partially a result of a police culture that are obsessed with[keeping crime statistics low.](http://articles.latimes.com/2007/nov/09/world/fg-autopsy9) Former detectives claim that police is unwilling to investigate homicides unless there is a clear suspects and frequently labels unnatural deaths as suicides without performing autopsies. Coincidentally, Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the world._

**_WHISPERS OF A NEW GOD_ **

_(The whispers start, except that they had been around all along.  Japan has a mysteriously low crime rate – they all think it, but few move to verbalize it.  The heart attacks of criminals don't stop, or even slow - if anything, they increase.  The movement is gaining momentum.  The idea of repentance becomes a prayer.  The only way that sinners can repent their sins is through death – to die without their Ones, to die without being entirely accepted into society, as they surrendered their rights to be part of such a social mechanism when they committed crimes. It takes root as a beautiful poison.)_

_Kira._

 

\----oOo----

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not long after airing the reply that Light crafted that they receive a message from the Second Kira. 

“Ryuzaki!” Quillsh says, speaking through the laptop. “It’s a message.” His tone is hushed, and it sounds as though he’s clenching his teeth.  Lawliet immediately spins face the computer, and stumbles to where it sits on the desk.  With nimble fingers, he quickly opens the file that Quillsh sends to him – it reminds him, with a distant feeling, of their initial correspondences about the Kira case, back when Quillsh had voyaged to Japan to work with the NPA and Lawliet was still curled under his window of room at Wammy’s House, staring at the stars in utter silence. 

He wonders, sometimes, if he’ll ever return there.

“What?” Matsuda cries almost immediately, jumping to his feet from his place on the couch.  Light and Soichiro stop talking.  The silence is deafening to Lawliet’s ears.

“I will bring the entire envelope over there shortly, but in the meantime, I sent a file to the computer,” Quillsh adds, abruptly cutting off as Lawliet moves to play the tape.  They all gather around the computer, with Light standing the closest to where Lawliet sits.  It’s possible that it’s only due to Lawliet’s imagination, but he can almost feel the electricity humming between them. 

Light’s arm is so close to his, he could reach out and grab his hand, run his fingers over his pulse and never let go. _It’s only because he’s Kira._ They’re forever juxtaposed, if for that reason alone.

The screen for the tape starts the same as any other – with the ornate “Kira” logo cast in black with a background of pale grey. Within moments, a deep voice speaks to them, clear and confident. 

“Mr. Kira, thank you for your reply,” the screen says, direct from the beginning.  “I will do as you say.”

“Whew,” Matsuda says quietly, whistling through his teeth.  “It actually worked.”

_Is it really that easy?_

“I want to meet you,” the screen adds, somewhat insistently, and Lawliet freezes.  “I don’t think you have the eyes, but I won’t try to kill you.  I would never, and that’s a promise.”

  
_The eyes…_

“He just said he had…the eyes?” Aizawa scoffs, with a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”  He crosses his arms, somewhat indignant.

Lawliet barely hears the way Light gasps, ever so quietly, sharply inhaling like a small prayer sucked into his throat.

His mind is racing, maps stretching out before him like points on a plane.  There are only a finite number of patterns the world can take… 

The eyes…

He digs a fingernail into the hollow of his cheek.

_Eyes…_

He thinks of Beyond Birthday, laughing through his cell like a god of death, the cackles ripping through his chest like sins.

_This is not something paranormal. Light Yagami is Kira. He’s standing next to you._

“Please tell me how I can meet you without the police knowing,” the voice from the tape adds, somewhat gentler. “And when we meet, we can confirm our identities by showing our Shinigami to each other.”

_Shinigami._

_Shinigami._

Panic settles on him slowly, then all at once. He hears himself gasp, panicked breath fighting through his throat and gaping in his chest. He remembers Beyond Birthday, saying he had the eyes of a Shinigami, laughing about how he knew when his victims were going to die.

It’s not like Lawliet to lose control, and when he does he’s barely conscious of it.  As if listening from the outside, he hears himself hyperventilating, feels himself digging his fingers into the roots of his hair to concentrate the panic into one place.  He can barely stutter the word “Shinigami” from his lips before his voice breaks into a yell, and he’s pushing away from the TV, pushing away and away from the glass breaking in front of him in all metaphorical ways, digging into his skin.

_Is it possible Beyond hadn’t been lying?  What if Kira has some supernatural gift, with the way he kills his victims?_

He pushes back against the chair so hard that within an instant he’s falling.  He looks to the side as he crashes, his vision filled with Light Yagami – standing tall against the silhouettes of buildings in the window, cold and indifferent. When he hits the floor, he can’t help but stare at the TV, selfishly grabbing his attention and opening a yawning hole in his chest like something had bitten through to his center, the core of an apple crushed and broken and lying in the grass as he tumbled into nothing.

“Ryuzaki!” he hears Matsuda yell, and within an instant Aizawa is crouched by his side, but it’s all blurred. He can barely see clearly. “Are you alright?”

_Light Yagami is Kira.  Does he have the same power as Beyond Birthday?_

_Am I supposed to fall in love with another monster?_

“Sh…Shinigami?” he whispers, pushing himself up to see the TV more clearly, his hands bearing the weight as he leans back onto the floor threatening to plummet beneath him.  Fear chokes him.  “Am I supposed…to accept the existence of something like that?”

“That’s impossible,” Matsuda says with an apprehensive laugh, rapidly brushing hair away from his forehead.

“Obviously they don’t exist,” adds Soichiro firmly, and with a quick glance Lawliet sees his hands are bunched into fists at the side.

“That’s right, Ryuzaki,” says Light, unshaking and wholly composed by all standards.  He leans down a little, offering a hand with a lazy smile.  “Don’t doubt yourself.  Shinigami don’t exist.  Let me help you up.”

Lawliet stares at him, unmoving. _Kira_ …  “Kira had those criminals in prison write something about Shinigami before they died…” he murmurs, searching Light’s eyes and finding only blankness in the depths of amber.  His lips are pressed into a thin line, revealing nothing. _Light Yagami, what are you playing at?_

“So shouldn’t we assume this is the same Kira?” Soichiro says from behind them calmly.  “If it’s the same person, then it would make sense that they could say the same things.”

“I don’t think so,” Light says, continuing to stare at Lawliet.  “If this was the same Kira from before, he wouldn’t have replied to our video.  And there’s no way that the real Kira would go through the trouble of getting L to appear on TV only to stop trying to kill him. Then maybe the real Kira and the Second Kira…”

The world fades away, and Lawliet sees only Light. He’s smiling serenely, the precise opposite of a traditional monstrosity – which only gives cause for his apprehension to build and to swell in his chest like a secret threatening to poison him.

_If you are really Kira, how do you kill…?_

Reluctantly, he takes Light’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.  “It’s as Light says,” he concedes quietly.  “If the two Kiras were connected, I don’t think he would stop trying to kill me.”

_I knew I had been putting my life on the line since the beginning, but not in this way._

“Second Kira is acting independently from the first,” he continues, musing over the considerations as he speaks. “He wants to meet the real Kira.”

“You’re right,” Light adds, casting him a bright, albeit fleeting, smile, all the while carefully readjusting the sleeves of his jacket.  “He’s acting out of interest in Kira.  ‘Shinigami’ probably refers to their killing power.  They can confirm their identities by showing each other their killing power.”

_How very clever of you, Light._

He imagines Beyond Birthday crawling behind him, wrapping his arms around his stomach and laughing at the very idea. _This one’s clever, isn’t he? He would’ve done well at Wammy’s House. In another world, you’d have been good partners._

“Mmm.  Yes, that’s right,” Lawliet says, refusing to stutter in spite of the mechanisms passing through his brain in dangerous moments.  “The word ‘Shinigami’ is a word that has some meaning between Kira and the Second Kira.  We should try to get him to tell us what it means.”  His voice is oddly calm, in spite of the way his heart threatens to beat out of his chest, like a ghost had wrapped its fingers around him and whispered to him – run.

“So are you going to respond, and force him to be more direct?” Light asks, somewhat idly, cupping a hand to the side of his cheek as he mulls the idea over.  He shows no sign of fear.  “If we don’t ask carefully, he’ll know that we’re not Kira.”

Lawliet frowns a little.  “No.  I shall leave the rest to Kira and Second Kira.”

“Leave it to them?” Aizawa shifts uncomfortably.

“The Second Kira has received a message from Kira and is satisfied.  He thinks that he’s got Kira’s attention, and he also used a word that only the two of them can understand,” Lawliet says quietly.  “This reply will air on Sakura TV’s six o’clock news.  Of course, Kira should be watching the exchange between our made-up Kira and the Second Kira.”  He glances at Light, feeling his hands shaking.  _And if you grabbed my hands…_    “From Kira’s standpoint, he’ll want to prevent the Second Kira from coming into direct contact with the police. Maybe this time, the real Kira may feel pressured to respond.”

“And if Kira doesn’t respond?” Aizawa asks, visibly distressed as he reaches to tug on a bit of hair. Light casts him a sideways glance, stepping away subtly from Lawliet.

“If he reveals more information that Kira doesn’t want the police to know,” Lawliet returns, “and makes Kira more nervous, and more furious, in order to pressure Kira into meeting him… Well, that would be most interesting.”

He glances at Light, who stares back at him. “There’s a chance we could obtain some physical evidence from Kira himself,” he says softly.

Light smiles, but only the surface. _I could scratch through his skin, rip him open._

“Can’t wait.”

_It’s impossible I was born to love you._

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet doesn’t sleep that night. He sits on the bed, stretching and staring out the window, but he can’t bring himself to submit to falling unconscious.  There’s too little time left to spend any of it on sleeping.  Even when he thought time was an indefinite infinity, he couldn’t bear to waste much of it on rest, in spite of the logical benefits of rest. _Never mind the nightmares._

Predictably, he can’t help but think of Beyond Birthday, laughing when they had met on opposite sides of a cell door – he had been uncertain which side was hell, but hadn’t given a damn.  All he saw were dark eyes, a deeper and less poignant shade of red than before, and the emptiness he saw gaping back at him reminded him sickeningly of himself.  Two sides of a coin, both worth infinity.

_Am I still empty, now that I have a One?_

If Light Yagami were here as his partner, as a detective or otherwise – would he still have that cavernous depth in his chest, stretching and compelling him to implode, because he was tired?

Naturally, such questions are preposterous in the midst of the mystery facing him, but he cannot help but let his mind dwell momentarily on the subject.  It doesn’t matter Light Yagami is his One – what matters is that Light Yagami is Kira, especially if Light is fighting with some deity or otherwise potently mysterious killing power. 

_Light Yagami is changing the world, stirring it in new ways I haven’t seen in six hundred years._

It’s fitting that someone so combative, threatening to uproot the world from its bones, is the One of someone stuck in stone – someone whose arms and legs are the hands of a clock.  Frozen.  Even if he’s started aging, Lawliet still sees himself as ageless.

_The first step of the grieving process; denial. Isolation._

 

* * *

 

 

They analyze the contents of the most recent tape until they receive another one, and Light is beckoned into task force headquarters, radiant with hands in pockets and a careful smile that Lawliet grits his teeth against the precise idea of.  _Light only comes to task force headquarters when the sun is setting._

This time, they receive a diary; Lawliet instructed Soichiro to give Light a quick debriefing over the phone on the contents before his arrival at headquarters, so the moment Light flings open the door he’s filled with questions.

“Did he want the diary aired on TV?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and glancing quickly at Lawliet, who’s perched on a chair, watching the proceedings coolly.  Light bites his lip quickly and moves his hair again, like he’s covering something on the side of his head.  _Soichiro Yagami wouldn’t be pleased to know you’ve started aging. We’re alike in that sense._ The idea sends a thrill along Lawliet’s spine; such thoughts are never far in his mind, and he cannot help but wonder how long the phenomenon will go unspoken between them.

“Yes,” Soichiro says grimly, passing an envelope to Light.  “This is it.”

Lawliet watches as Light holds the papers close to his face, his eyes racing as he examines the contents.  “Please take a look at the thirtieth,” he says monotonously, rising from the chair to stand and turning his head away from Light to gaze out the window, at the buildings grey and somehow flat in spite of their postures.

Light is silent, still as a statue when he reads. Lawliet shoves his hands into his pockets and slowly paces towards Light, each foot padding lightly on the ground another breath that freezes his lungs.  He waits until he’s standing as closely as possible to Light without making physical contact, and says softly, “What do you make of it, Light?”

_Touch me._

Light jerks his head up as though he’d heard the thought, and stares at Lawliet with wide eyes, burning intensely with something wordless.  “Right now,” he replies quietly, “I can only say he’s an idiot.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Matsuda chirps from a bit away, but Light doesn’t look at him.  His eyes are trained carefully on Lawliet’s.   “It’s obvious he wants to meet Kira at the home game.”

Lawliet lowers his head and turns away, leaning to face the window once again.  He breathes deeply, not allowing the dizziness infecting his blood to sway him. He’s barely listening as he hears Soichiro murmur, “Doesn’t he realize if we air this there’ll be a mass panic, and the game will be cancelled?”

“To be honest,” Lawliet says, half to himself, as he watches the sun dipping closer to the horizon, “it’s so stupid that I’m not sure how to deal with it.  If the diary is broadcast, then we’ll have to announce that the game on the 30th is cancelled.  But if we don’t, the Second Kira won’t make a move.”  Slowly, he moves towards the couch again.  _You’re restless; he makes you restless.  One side effect of being infected._

“But if he gets angry we cancelled the game, there’s no telling what he might do,” Matsuda adds, approaching Lawliet hesitantly. The others follow, drawing closer to the couches. 

“That’s fine,” Lawliet says dryly; he casts a quick glance at Light, who is staring at him intensely. Within an instant, Light’s cheekbones are flushed with pale pink and he glances away.  _Don’t let it go to your head.  But what is he thinking about?_  “The Second Kira seems to worship Kira.  He promised the Kira we created that he’d refrain from killing carelessly.  We can believe that.”

He pauses, and carefully raises a thumb to his lips. “Anyway,” he says softly, “we’ll air the diary and the cancellation of the game, and also announce that we’re going to close off and inspect all roads around the Tokyo Dome. Our Kira will respond with, ‘Understood. Meet you there.’”

Soichiro coughs, and shifts his glasses a bit uncomfortably.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, clearing his throat, “you don’t really think that they would go there even if we’re inspecting the roads around the dome, do you?”

Lawliet glances at Soichiro, and for a strange moment, he’s frozen.  He’s keenly aware of the greyness coloring Soichiro’s hair, and the lines gracefully etched into his forehead – all the marks on him designating someone aging, and the observations cut sharply into him like someone had written the date of his own death onto his chest with a knife.  The silhouette of Light is in his peripheral vision, but it’s all he can see.  _We do these things to each other.  No different from gods of death; don't we all have something of a killing power?_

Lawliet hums, a bit distractedly, from his throat. “I don’t think that the real Kira will go,” he says, quiet, “but I am not sure about the Second Kira. I can’t tell how stupid he is.” _Must be young._

He’s intrigued by the fact that he’s easily caught off guard by the weight of his own thoughts on this day.  It’s unusual – but he’s keen on moving forward. The case takes priority. “Assuming he isn’t as stupid as we think he is,” Lawliet murmurs, “I’ll try to see if there might be another message hidden in the diary.”  He glances at Light. “If there is a code only people who have the so-called Shinigami killing power can understand, I can’t decipher it. But we should thoroughly investigate the places listed in this diary.”

This time, Light doesn’t avert his eyes. He stares evenly back at Lawliet, smiling a bit; it’s like he’s a shadow.  Lawliet refuses to think about leaning closer to him, pushing some of his hair back, seeing that they have the same secret – such thoughts are artificial, crafted by the principle of society alone, that he should want to do such things. Surely, he doesn’t actually want to do so.

Lawliet smiles back, ever so slightly. “We have to prepare for the possibility that all our efforts will be fruitless,” he says, the weight of such a meaning settling heavy on his shoulders.  He curls forward a little more.  Nothing comes of nothing; you and I, Light Yagami, are nothing. “We must also be wary of people waiting with notebooks in Aoyama, and people lurking in clothing stores in Shibuya.”

“Increased security and undercover officers in those places might also help,” Light adds coolly, smoothing the front of his jacket. Soichiro glances back at him, and smiles – proud.

“I can go to Aoyama and Shibuya!” Matsuda says abruptly, jerking forward as though he were inspired to stand. “I’d fit right in.” When he looks at Lawliet, his eyes are bright.

Before Lawliet can respond, Light adds, “I’ll go too.”

 _Will you?_   Lawliet digs his fingernails into his legs, without consciously deciding to do so.

“Light?” Soichiro murmurs, visibly apprehensive. His lips turn down a bit at the corners.

“It’s fine, Dad,” Light says, looking at Soichiro for only a moment before staring at Lawliet.  It’s clear whom he’s speaking to.  “I go to Aoyama and Shibuya occasionally.  And I’d be the one who’d look the most natural hanging out with Mr. Matsui. The only person Second Kira is interested in is Kira.”

The sun is starting to set more violently now; loudly, it spills the room with crimson, and turns Light’s hair a shocking shade of red.  Lawliet tilts his head to the side, feeling that on some level, he may be losing his footing, at least by some definitions.

 

* * *

 

 

They discuss the proceedings for a bit longer, until it’s settled that Light will be going to Aoyama and Shibuya with Matsuda.

Long after the sun disappeared and the moon slipped into the sky quietly, everyone slowly begins to leave.  They exit headquarters in shifts; Aizawa leaves first, followed by Matsuda a few minutes later.  Soichiro offers to leave before Light, but – to Lawliet’s surprise – Light offers to stay behind. 

In the end, it’s the two of them sitting in the room across from each other, on chairs parallel with opposite postures. They can see each other, but never touch, and at first they say nothing.  Outside, the moon whispers like cuts on fingertips, casting the cityscape with dark cataracts, with promises dark and lovely to keep.

“Ryuzaki,” Light says quietly, and his tone dancing like it’s rife with something dangerous hiding just underneath the surface. “You did an excellent job today, deciphering that diary entry.  To be honest, I don’t know what to make of it either.  The Second Kira definitely seems stupid.”  _Nothing he says is suspicious – he can’t do anything too unexpected, lest my suspicions of him being Kira be raised._

_Does the mere acknowledgement of our connection mean I should become more suspicious?_

“Naturally,” Lawliet returns, and narrows his eyes as he watches Light rise from the chair and stretch, raising his arms high above his head.  “I agree. It’s possible, as we said, there might be another message hidden within the diary.”

Light doesn’t say anything, but walks closer to Lawliet, a small smile on his lips.  Lawliet stands within moments, tucks his hands into his pockets; some verses of poetry dance in his mind, behind his eyelids, as he inhales sharply. _Stay quiet._

They’re silent, and Light walks so close to him that they’re almost touching.  His eyes are bright amber with no words to carry any of the burning, plenty of secrets undoubtedly frozen in the blankness, and Lawliet fights the urge to brush his fingertips across Light’s waist and assuage the feeling of his own skin stinging and raw with the ridiculous longing of it all.  _What am I doing?_

_Would Kira approach me like this?_

“I’m sure we won’t find anything at Aoyama or Shibuya,” Light whispers, and his voice is like bells.  “But if we do, I look forward to catching him.”

Lawliet softly hums his approval, and starts to walk away, hands still tucked firmly into his pockets.  Looking at the ground, he notices that there’s a bit of water spilled on the floor from someone’s drink; it reflects the lights of the ceiling and he steps into it, breaking the reflection like a mirror. The temptation lending itself to his spine wants to raze him, break him apart like teeth gnawing him in two, but all of it is silent.  He lives within these paces, these footsteps carrying him away from Light.  _You should love your One_.  They’re always taught to love their Ones, but Lawliet is different.

“We have to prepare for the possibility that all efforts will be fruitless,” he repeats in a soft murmur, and imagines rotten apples cores strewn across the floor.  The forbidden fruit litters the ground as it much as it litters his conversations with Light.  _My throat will always burn with things I won’t say._

He’s unsurprised to hear the delicate footsteps of Light pacing right behind him.  He fights the urge to jump when he feels a hand delicately brush against his hipbone. _Touch me._ Ones always seemed to be drawn by touch, and if that’s true, Lawliet is all rough edges and swallowed questions.

The moment is so fleeting that Lawliet wonders if he’d imagined it, but he can’t imagine the way Light flashes a knowing smile at him when he steps into Lawliet’s field of vision. 

_Are we going to leave this unsaid, still? What else can we speak about?_

From outside, the sound of sirens calls through windows and walls.  It’s like breaking glass over their heads.  “I think you’re quite admirable, Ryuzaki,” Light says, and he’s still smiling. “I have nothing but respect for you.”

“Mmm.  Thank you,” Lawliet responds flatly, glancing at the ceiling with every appearance of disinterest, but he feels something foreign to him itch in his toes. He should say more, but his voice is hitching in his throat.  He thinks of kisses, slow and deep, ones he’s woken from nightmares about, grabbing at his own wrists.  _This is uncharacteristic of you and him both._

“I imagine you’ve solved an abundance of cases,” Light says softly.  “You’ve been alive for quite some time, haven’t you?  As the world’s greatest detective.”  There’s a bit of a teasing note in his voice. 

Lawliet doesn’t reply for a moment – just stares back, hesitant daggers and frozen seconds.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, almost boredly.

_Where is Quillsh?  Wasn’t he supposed to be back by now?_

“I’m proud to solve this work on this case with you,” Light says with a bright smile, and Lawliet bites his lip. _What are you doing?_

“Your deductive ability is most helpful,” Lawliet concedes. 

A pause.

“It’s probably safe for you to leave now.”  He's tired of the nervousness that gnaws at him.

Light glances at his watch, and smiles a bit ironically.  “Look at the time,” he mutters, and the words send ice into Lawliet’s veins. “You’re right, I probably should be heading out.”  He paces a little closer, and carefully reaches out to place a hand at the curve of Lawliet’s arm, delicate and gossamer.  “Goodnight, Ryuzaki.”

_Kiss me._

Lawliet blinks, careful to not move a bit and inadvertently listen to the thoughts plaguing and distracting him.  “Goodnight,” he says dismissively, refusing to turn his head away from the intensity of Light’s eyes peering at him.   He thinks of cheap ice cream melting, of stained glass as both artistry and artist, of old prayer books from Wammy’s House crumbling in his hands, of wrappers from Japanese soda bottles ripping from containers; he thinks of anything other than eyelashes shyly batting across his cheekbones and the very sensation of touch betraying his consciousness.  _This is not that kind of game._

He wonders if Kira’s other victims realize they’re dying – if it fills them with fear.  At least they fall prey to death quickly.  His death is an anticlimactic one; six hundred years filled with crimes of lust and greed and all sorts of sin, and he falls to something anyone else could call love without shame.  He thinks of this long after Light leaves, when he’s sitting in the bath with only water to answer him and his hair sticks, heavy, to the back of his neck. There will be no answer to inarticulate questions, and he uses the water to wash off any idea that he may have wanted Light’s hands on him. 

 

* * *

 

 

_In the end, the absence of the concession about us being Ones means little.  It just means, on principle, that the fact changes nothing._

 

* * *

 

 

Light Yagami and Matsuda investigate the places denoted in the diary, but in the end, they report on nothing.

Lawliet throws away time and decides to measure his life with coffee spoons, and by the glances he shares with Light. They’re moving closer to something, and he’s not discouraged by the lack of evidence gathered from investigations at the given locations.  _Something is coming, I can feel it._

They’re all sitting together when they receive a message from Quillsh through the laptop.  “Ryuzaki,” he says.  “Sakura TV has informed us that they received another tape. I’ve attached the file.”

Seconds blur as Lawliet leaves his fingers jumbled, racing to see the message.  He opens the file and holds his breath.

 “I have found Kira,” they hear from the file, in the same voice they’ve come to know. “To all of the people at the television station and the police, thank you very much.”

Lawliet’s mind races.

_If this is true, the only thing that corresponds to this tape being mailed on the 23 rd is the 22nd in Aoyama. Matsuda and Light Yagami are the only ones from this investigation who went to Aoyama. _

_Is Light really Kira?_

Naturally, they don’t have proof that the event happened in Aoyama.  Even so…

“He found him?” Aizawa says, sounding choked as he tiredly rises to his feet.  “This isn’t good.”

“Yes,” Soichiro murmurs, wringing his wrists in small motions.  “This means the Second Kira and Kira are now cooperating.”

“We’re still not sure of that,” Lawliet says firmly, casting a quick glance at his coffee on the table.  Granules of sugar stick to his fingers, and he quickly licks them off with a few deft motions of his tongue.  “The Second Kira is only saying that he found him. He may not have contacted him yet.”

He looks up at Light, who is staring at him with an expression that could only be described as wholly blank. “Since we’ve come to this point,” Lawliet murmurs, “the police will have to send a message to the Second Kira.”

“Send a message?” Matsuda asks nervously.

“Yes.  The police will have to reach out to the Second Kira and offer him a deal in exchange for Kira’s name.”

Light smiles.

“That’s a great idea, Ryuzaki.”

_They hang in the balance._

 

* * *

 

 

_He still hasn't given any overt acknowledgement of our connection as Ones._

_At this point, if he brings it up, he may suppose it seems to me that he's using the knowledge to get closer to me, so he can learn my name._

_It would change nothing._

_And of course, that's exactly what I would assume._

 

* * *

 

 

“If Kira doesn’t know who you are yet, there may still be time.  Don’t approach Kira out of curiosity,” their manufactured broadcast chastises them. The whole city is keeping guard, warning the Second Kira to stay away.  “Kira will kill you if you contact him; he will use you, and dispose of you.”

A flash of city lights, red and glowing on top of dangerous spires like symbolic tales.  His hands are heavy, as Lawliet paces streets made of sawdust in his mind. He feels his skin growing old; tastes peaches on his lips, even if the mirror has only shown his hair is changing slowly.  He’s made of playing cards, aces and spades lost and gained.

_Intent doesn’t absolve your sins, Kira._

“What you can do is reconsider the value of human life,” every screen says to the city, “and atone for your crimes by giving us your information about Kira.  Only you can help us bring this reign of terror to an end.”

Lawliet closes his eyes when the broadcast is over, and breathes.

Later that night, he falls asleep in the bath, against his best intentions; his hands grip the side of the tub unrelentingly. He dreams Light is smiling at him, holding a fistful of blue roses and bowing his head ever so slightly; Lawliet grabs the roses, ignoring the way they stab his fingertips open, only so he can throw them aside and pull Light closer to him.

It’s only a thought trapped between the intangible and the real, but Lawliet kisses him, the feeling of it slowly building in his stomach; burning, slow and sensory, as he touches Light’s hipbones and the cuts on his fingers are healed.   

 

* * *

 

 

The next afternoon, they find Lawliet curled up in front of the television on the chair, the lights entirely dimmed and the curtains pulled firmly shut.  He’s completely still, the shadows under his eyes more prominent than usual as he squints at the screen – he’s surrounded by piles of tapes, afraid of falling asleep even though he’d never admit it. 

“Were you really planning on going through all the videos from Aoyama by yourself?” Aizawa asks gruffly as he wades through the piles of tapes on the floor to peer at Lawliet. 

“Yes.”  _It’s better than sleeping._ He touches his lips, a silent thrill of fear piercing him, the memory of his last dream haunting him. “It is very likely that Kira and the Second Kira made contact with each other there on that day. I need to check…all of them.” His voice breaks quietly on the last moment of his sentence, but he pretends to not notice.

They’re silent for a moment, until Lawliet speaks again.  “Also, Mr. Yagami?” he murmurs.

“Yes?”

“I would like Mr. Mogi to keep watch over Light’s activities.”

“Light’s…activities?” Soichiro’s voice falters, and there’s a sharp note of pain implicit in his words.

“In the event that Light is Kira,” Lawliet whispers, leaning closer to the screen as he watches the streets of Aoyama, “the Second Kira might try to contact him in some way.”

“I understand.”

He pretends to not hear the shuffling of steps behind him, as Aizawa and Matsuda whisper among themselves.

“So, when does Ryuzaki sleep?” Aizawa says softly.

“I saw him sleeping in that exact position the other day.”

“You think he did this for six hundred years straight?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.  I’m serious.”

As for Lawliet, he would be glad to forget the way his skin had curled, waterlogged and wrinkled, after sleeping in the bath.  How had he ever been so stupid?  He knew better.

_Perhaps I am getting reckless._

 

* * *

 

 

In the evening, Light makes an appearance at headquarters.  He opens the door quietly, and murmurs, “Hello! I’m back.”  The curtains are still pulled shut, and the room is bathed in a warm, albeit dark, amber.

Lawliet turns in his chair, and – to his own surprise – his smile isn’t contrived.  “Ah, Light,” he says softly, “come in. Good timing.  A video message from the Second Kira just arrived.”

_Light seems different today._

“Another tape?” Light asks, intrigued, as he runs a finger along the side of a lampshade.  He arches an eyebrow delicately as he gazes at Lawliet.  “That was fast.”

“Yes.  I also think this may be the last one.”  Lawliet tilts his head, and flicks a button on the remote to replace the blank screen with the traditional “Kira” lettering.  Light stands closely to him, moving from the lampshade on the table to stay slightly behind the chair.

The tape is straightforward.  “I will not contact Kira,” a voice says clearly. “I’d like to thank the police for their advice.  But I’m going to help Kira erase evil from the world, and gain his approval.  I will begin by punishing criminals that Kira hasn’t punished yet. Also, I will share this power among those who are worthy and make this world a better place.”

Quickly, Lawliet uses the remote to mute the screen again.  “Watching this,” he says, “makes me feel that Kira and the Second Kira have joined forces.” He clenches his hands into his fist, until his fingertips are sunspots carefully hidden by his own grip.

“What?” Light asks, his voice incredulous. _Perhaps he’s impressed with this deduction; I know your game._ “How do you know they’ve joined forces?”

“Didn’t you sense it?” Lawliet says softly, turning to face Light, his eyes wide.  “I thought you would gather the same impression.  His attitude has changed completely, and he now says he wants to punish criminals that Kira didn’t punish to gain some sort of approval.” There’s something hollow in his stomach when he gazes at Light, like he’s cast his eyes out to a desert and he can see all the stars but the world is a hollow valley, of broken jaws and rivers lying apathetic and sick. 

“It’s likely he’s been told by Kira what to say,” he adds, voice quiet.  “And he’s likely been told to hide that they’re working together.”  _We are shadows, falling.  We are equally hollow, you and I – sawdust in the streets and crabs on the ocean floor, dying.  Living, if it can be called that, on borrowed time._

“I see,” Light concedes quickly, bowing his head and closing his eyes.  “That probably means Kira isn’t thinking about his actions very much.”

“Yes,” Lawliet says solemnly, turning to face the television.  “Did Kira encounter something he couldn’t overcome?  He was probably trying to scare us by making it obvious that he’d recruited the Second Kira.  Their union is rather threatening. But this lessens the suspicion I had of Light.”

The words crash onto ears too keen, between the existence and the essence of what is said.  “What do you mean, Ryuzaki?” Soichiro says, leaping to his feet; Lawliet isn’t facing him, but he clearly hears the splattering of footsteps onto the ground.

“If Light is Kira, then he wouldn’t have sent in a video like this,” Lawliet says, tilting his head to the side.  

_I am lying._

_Let's see if Light can tell._

“He would’ve tried to threaten me, L, into appearing on television again," Lawliet continues.  "Maintaining that lie, that they aren’t working together, he would’ve placed all the responsibility onto the Second Kira, and this is what he’d have him say – ‘I stopped because Kira told me to, but I don’t think that warning would come from the real Kira. Kira should be happy if L died. There’s no way he would stop me.’”

“Ryuzaki,” Light says quietly, “I would never do that if I were Kira.”

_Of course; he could see through me straightaway._

“Why?”

“I know your personality.” Light sounds indignant, and a quick glance backwards shows he’s bunched his hands into fists. “L would never go on TV, no matter how he was threatened.  He wouldn’t want to die in someone else’s place.  He would think of some way to escape.”

Unbidden –

_I can’t escape.  I’m already dying._

_And he’s too smart for this_.  “You figured it out,” Lawliet says, turning all the way around to gaze at Light sharply.  “You caught me!”

He’s unprepared for how harsh the words sound falling from his lips; gone is the jovial softness he’d relied on only moments earlier.  He's unsure whether it's intentional or not, but the memories of his dreams are still burned into his head and maybe he's reaching for something, for anything at all.  _Can’t escape._

“Light,” Soichiro cuts in, compelling Light to cast his eyes away from glaring at Lawliet, “stop saying ‘ _if I were Kira_.’ I don’t like hearing it, even hypothetically.”

“Sorry,” Light says, suddenly apologetic. “But I want to tell Ryuzaki what I think.”  He sounds faintly disgusted at the mention of the word Ryuzaki; his tongue curls over it like it’s poison.  _Ah, well – you did poison yourself with me._ “I have to pose the scenario hypothetically in order to solve this case quickly and save my name.  And besides, it’s because I’m not Kira that I can talk that way.”

Lawliet bites his lip so hard he almost bleeds, and drops sugar cubes into the coffee in front of him on the table like a rhythm. “You’re right,” he says quickly, feeling an uncharacteristic sort of resentfulness lie on his chest. “You’re not Kira.”

“What?” Light says, although it’s more a snap than anything else.

“No,” Lawliet returns, masking his bitterness with the sugar and with what pours from his lips.  “It would be a problem if Light-kun were Kira, because he is…”

He pauses, lets Light fill in the blank. Lets his heart race. Remembers the idea of kissing, slowly and deeply against a sky too glad to let the stars burn out. Other things he can't have.

_My One._

“Because Light-kun is my first friend ever,” Lawliet says abruptly, dipping a coffee spoon into the concoction and stirring the sugar.  He rests in the silence harshly by lifting the mug to his lips, sipping deeply and letting it pour over his tongue.

_You’re my One and you don’t care. Neither of us cares. We only care about this game, and that’s what sets us both apart._

_That's why we haven't acknowledged it; it would be nothing more than another puzzle piece to fit into the game._

_Neither of us can benefit from a concession at this point._

“Yes,” Light says, clearing his throat. “You’re a friend I have much in common with, too.”

“Thank you.”

Unspoken – _only you know what it feels like to die like this, when we’re interlocked this way._   Lawliet turns and faces Light, whose eyes are suddenly large and bright in the darkness of the room.

“I’ve been lonely since you’ve been taking breaks from school,” Light says softly.  “I’d like to play tennis with you again sometime.”

“Yes,” Lawliet says in a moment, sans hesitation. He can’t feel his hands. “By all means.”

The rest of the room fades away. His words weren’t innocent, so he has no reason to feel like he’s won anything at all.  He tells reminds himself of that until he can pretend his skin isn’t burning for the want of being touched.

_Shadows are adept at playing games.  This is the kind of game I can only improvise._

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, everything is brighter at headquarters. They’ve been at the same hotel for a long time; the curtains are made of deep yellows and greens and blues.  This is the taste of familiarity.  Lawliet smiles a bit when he casts them aside to reveal the window in the morning, as the sun rises.

“Mr. Yagami,” he says lightly, “if I die within the next few days, your son is Kira.  I’ll make sure that you have ready access to Watari.  I’m counting on you.”

 _It doesn’t matter whether I live or die. I’m already dying._ The idea is liberating, in some ways; they may have a resolution for the case.

Naturally, Soichiro and the others jump to their feet, all speaking at once – nervous mouths, nervous thoughts, nervous words, nervous hands.  Lawliet brushes them aside with a quick glance over his shoulder.  “Even I don’t know how I feel,” he admits, and it’s a confession as honest as any. _I don’t know if I love him, or if I should.  At the same time, I know I do not.  All I know is, we have to solve the case._ “This has never happened before.”

“What has?”

_Falling. Dying._

“If Kira and the Second Kira are working together right now,” Lawliet says, “I’m in trouble.”  He hesitates, and sips deeply from his coffee.  His voice is barely above a mumble.  “There’s also a good chance I am no longer capable of analyzing the situation calmly.”

Matsuda sputters immediately.  “What do you mean by that?” he asks, moving forward as if to hold onto Lawliet’s shoulder. 

_It means I woke up with another grey hair this morning, and you have no idea.  It means I fell asleep accidentally.  It means I am broken glass._

“I might just be considering him a suspect because there’s no one else,” Lawliet says, his voice even as he grips the coffee mug tightly.  “Despite that, if I’m killed now, please assume Light Yagami is Kira.”  _If I die, it will all be over – all of this, six hundred years worth of fighting._

 _What comes after death?_ Fitting, for another victim of Kira’s to ask that question. _  
_

The room is brighter, and it lends more clarity as his vision blurs.

_I have no choice but to conduct a sneak attack. It can’t be helped.   This is all a wager now._

It was always nothing more than that.


	13. In Short, I Was Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If we die here,” Light says, his voice breaking like glass, “we’ll never find out the truth.”  
> He needs you.  
> You need him.  
> The walls are filled with bleach. Lawliet forgets his hands, forgets his feet, remembers only the ceiling above his head when he stares overhead. This is the feeling of run – run now – writhing and folding – use the pistons in your legs and the gears of your ankles and collect your forks and knives and run and keep running. Punch your fist into the gravel, understand him and understand his pain.

 

_Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets  
_ _And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes  
_ _Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ..._

 

 

_The sound of a gun firing pierces into Lawliet’s body sharper and harsher than he thought it ever could. It’s not as though he’s never been around a gun as it fired, and he isn’t even near this one in terms of physical proximity; but the echo ricocheting through the space between him and Light Yagami is a bullet itself that cuts through him as if to say, (Here. The reason you’re alive, served onto a platter, and because of your gambles, you might fall apart. You found him and you’re so eager to give him away)._

_(I have no other choice.  I have to solve this case.  It doesn’t matter he’s my One.)_

_He tells himself this much until his teeth are clenched tighter than he could ever imagine, his jaw aches with the weight of it. His future settles into the dust, too much fist and never enough rain._

_“Were you watching, Ryuzaki?  I did exactly as you said, and as you can see, I’m still alive.”_

_Light…._

_The heartbeat in his ears is like a clock, ticking. Every one of the seconds becomes more poignant as it falls.  Time has meaning._

_Matsuda gasps._

_“But this means….  You and Light….”_

 

* * *

 

 

And so L Lawliet perches on a bench at To-Oh University, where he knows he’ll be able to find Light. 

The day is filled with warmth, the blue skies smiling down on them, ignorant to any of the cryptic webs unfolding in their minds.   He thinks of Quillsh – how he’ll be leaving him behind.  He wonders if it’ll be lonely, if it's true that they are parting ways soon.  He wonders what everyone back at Wammy’s House will think, but the idea doesn’t trouble him much.  He had trained successors for a reason. 

He wonders such things with apathy, and yet his heart skips a beat when he catches a glimpse of Light walking next to a girl. She – tall, and elegant, with raven-colored hair and a delicate, intriguing smile.  He can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the idea; long ago, he had wondered if Light would be consistently approached by potential Ones. Perhaps this girl wonders about the same phenomenon; perhaps she’d see the grey hair at Light’s temple, strategically covered, and wonder if it were because of her.

Lawliet raises his arm, and waves to catch Light’s attention.  He calls his name, and it sounds foreign to his lips.  “Light-kun!” he calls, his voice full of air, calling to him with their feet crushing what laid underneath them, broken rubble or paper flowers.

Light sees him, and grimaces, looking at the ground as though he were embarrassed – or perhaps just frustrated. _I understand more than you know._ “Hey, Light!” Lawliet calls again, and he watches as Light hastily bids the girl goodbye. 

“How’s it going?” he adds somewhat slyly, as Light approaches him; he feels more venomous, more spiteful, but he’s addicted to the feeling.  Perhaps it’s enthralling, having the capability to elicit reactions from someone so carefully crafted of masks. 

“Didn’t you say you were afraid to appear in front of people?” Light asks tersely as he stands in front of Lawliet; his frame blocks the sun.  “Are you alright out here?”

“I realized that as long as you’re not Kira, it’s fine,” Lawliet returns.  The cherry blossoms no longer fall from the trees, he notices offhandedly. That time of year again. _Maybe this could be the last._ “You’re the only one on the outside who knows I’m L, so I’ve told everyone at headquarters that if I die in the next few days, to assume that you are Kira.”

_In any other universe, we’d play different kinds of games.  Maybe you’d kiss me, and maybe you’d hide and I’d try to find you.  Maybe we’d see who could find the most constellations; maybe we’d have breakfast in the mornings and maybe I could sing you to sleep. But now, we’re fighting for our lives._

“You told me,” Lawliet adds carefully, gauging Light’s lack of visible reaction, “that you’ve been lonely because I’ve been taking breaks from school, so I came out for a change of pace.” _Run away with me_. “As long as I don’t die, college is fun.”

Light smiles a little at the dryness of Lawliet’s humor.  “When you’re not here, it’s so boring,” he concedes.  “There’s no one else who can match my level of conversation.” 

_That’s because I’m your One._

“Shall we go get some cake from the cafeteria?” Lawliet asks with a thin-lipped smile, folding the shoes that had previously been nestled underneath the bench onto his feet. 

“Sure,” Light says evenly.  “My next lecture was cancelled, so it’s a date.”

He falters over the last word, suddenly frozen as if he’d neglected to catch himself amid a fall; Lawliet is halfway through putting a shoe onto his foot, and he glances up at Light, only to see his eyes are wide. 

_I’ll measure out my life with coffee spoons. It’s the best we’ll get._

“Yes,” Lawliet says quickly, writing over the silence. He finishes slipping the shoes on, and stands to brush dust from his pants.  “I hope they have shortcake.”

_Let’s not think of it._

Light looks intently at the ground, unspeaking as they start to walk.   They don’t make it very far before Lawliet hears a piercing shriek –

“Light!  I finally found you!”

Lawliet spins around, fighting to keep a smile off his face. 

_Precisely…_

Behind them stands a girl, short in stature – her hair is a bright yellow hue, the kind of bright yellow shade people would swallow paint replicating, if they thought it could bleach their insides to be happy. He recognizes her – Misa Amane. A model – high profile. He knows her.

“I came because I had a photoshoot nearby!” Misa says, sounding giddy.  Her eyes rest on Lawliet, and within an instant she’s running closer. “Is this a friend of yours, Light? He looks so unique and cool!”

Lawliet casts a quick glance at Light, who appears frozen.   _What’s he thinking, I wonder?_   “I’m Light’s girlfriend, Misa Amane,” she says, and Lawliet glances at her.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Hideki Ryuga,” Lawliet says flatly.

_She must be…._

“Hideki…Ryuga?” Misa whispers, a look of bewilderment flickering across her features until Light steps in front of her.

“Yes,” Light says evenly, “he has the same first and last name as the pop idol.  Isn’t that funny?”  He places his hands on her shoulders, and Lawliet feels something strange pulling at his stomach.

_Do you use seduction to get what you want, Light?_

Lawliet laughs.

 _Misa Amane is the Second Kira._ He’s sure of it.

“Yagami,” he says softly, “I’m jealous. I’ve been a huge fan of Amane’s since the August issue of ‘Eighteen.’”

“What!” Misa says, breaking into a smile; her eyes brighten instantly from where she stands, partially obstructed by the way Light’s shoulders conceal her.  “I’m so happy!”

_There’s no mistaking it._

Within moments, the news that Misa Amane is on campus seems to spill into the rest of the space; it’s whispered between the trees, diffused among all of them as they stand there.  Slowly, a crowd builds – comprised of one word, her name, as a prayer and a promise.  They're all calling her name.

"Misa-Misa!"

"Oh my gosh.  I'm a huge fan!"

"She's even more beautiful in person!"

_I’m improvising, but it’s working. If I could just grab her phone…_

Lawliet is barely breathing as he steps forward. Carefully, he slips a hand into her back pocket, plucking the phone out in one quick motion; he tucks it into his own pocket, wrapping his hands around it like a life preserver.

“Hey!” Misa calls quickly, half-smiling but half-shocked as she notices in an instant.  “Who touched my butt?”

Lawliet gasps, raising a hand to his lips, all too glad to play the part.  He glances at Light, whose lips are pressed together with thinly veiled disgust. “How disgraceful!” he says enthusiastically, nodding vehemently to the crowd.  “I can’t forgive anyone who would take advantage of the situation, and I will find the culprit!” 

Misa smiles at him, and for a moment Lawliet’s heart pauses.  _Imagine another world. You and I may have been friends._ “Ryuga, you’re so funny,” she says, almost shyly, holding a hand in front her mouth to cover a blush.

Lawliet glances over, and Light is unabashedly rolling his eyes at the antics. 

Suddenly, a newcomer to the crowd cuts through the lines of people surrounding them.  “Misa!” she says sharply, the click of her heels reverberating against the stone walkway.  “We’ve got to go! Or do you want to be late again?”

 _Ah.  Her manager._   She grabs Misa’s wrist, and starts to pull her away, as the crowd watches.  At the last moment, Misa turns to call to Light.  “See you after work, Light-kun!” she says, waving with the entirety of her arm.  “Miss you already!”

Lawliet smiles, hunching back into his usual posture. The phone is still wrapped tightly in his palm.  “Now, shall we go, Yagami?” he asks evenly. 

Light flashes him a dazzling smile. “Actually could you go ahead?” he asks. “I need to use the restroom."

“I see.  Well then…” 

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet is wholly unsurprised when he feels the phone vibrating in his hand, only moments after turning away.  He cannot help but smile when he pulls it out from where it’s hidden, holding it in front of his face with just the antennae.  _I knew you would do this, Light Yagami._

He flicks it open and says, a bit indulgently, “Yes, hello?”

The pause speaks as well as any words would. “What do you mean, ‘hello’?” asks Light dryly.

“Oh!” Lawliet says, drawing out the syllable on his lips, his mouth a perfect circle.  “This cellphone must have been dropped by someone in that commotion earlier. So…hello?”

“That’s Misa’s cell phone.  I’ll give it back to her.”

Light is just behind him, and gently touches his shoulder.

 _Every touch of yours is poisonous.  I still want it_.

“I see.  I understand,” Lawliet says, still speaking into the cell phone even though he senses Light behind him.  “Well. Talk to you later, Light.” He hangs up and turns around without smiling, leaving the cell phone in Light’s open palm with no further words. He refuses to acknowledge the unexpected jolt of lightning that races through his arm when his fingertips brush the openness of Light’s palm.  He wants to grab Light’s arm, pull him closer, sort this out. 

It occurs to him that they may be parting ways soon, if this case works out the way he anticipates it will.  _There isn’t much time left, Light Yagami._ The thought brings him an unplanned pang of something hollow in his chest, but he has no room to acknowledge it.

Only moments later, it’s his own cell phone that rings. He quickly removes it from his other pocket, flips it open to answer, “Hello?”

Not to his surprise, it’s Quillsh; he's been expecting the phone call. 

“We have her in custody,” he says blankly. 

_Just according to plan._

Lawliet's ears are ringing.

He hangs up the phone quickly, and when he turns to face Light, who’s still staring after him with a blank expression, he fights to keep his voice nonchalant. “This may be good and bad news to you,” he says, “but Misa Amane has been taken into custody under suspicion of being the Second Kira.  There were hairs and fibers, among other things, attached to the masking tape sealing the tapes the Second Kira sent.  We discovered matching samples in her room.”

He pauses.  _Light Yagami is stone._

“There will probably be a riot if we charge her with being the Second Kira, so we’re telling the public she’s volunteering to come with us because her manager has been charged with drug possession,” Lawliet says. “The truth will probably never go public.”

_No one will ever know about you and I; the history books won’t mention us._

The world will never the truth of what happened between Kira and L.

 

* * *

 

 

They place her in confinement, in a location not disclosed even to Lawliet; Quillsh has his secrets and his methods. Lawliet waits in the hotel room, watches as the sun sets and the room bleeds until all that’s left is grey and he’s caught in the darkness.  He communicates with Quillsh through the laptop, as he has for years; but there’s something different about it now.  He’s fatigued of it.

“Watari, has she said anything?”

Quillsh swallows, a bit nervously. _He’s trying to be brave._

“No.  She hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Get me a visual of her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.  Quickly.”

Lawliet is slightly repulsed when he sees the way Misa Amane is bound to the table, held down by straps and her eyes covered, but he swallows any trace of disgust.  The case comes first.  He doesn’t know what he’s fighting against – his objective is to solve puzzles, not to play by the rules.

_We have to make her tell us what she knows about Kira, and if she knows who he is._

_Light Yagami will have to testify as the primary suspect._

He doesn’t look forward to Soichiro’s reaction to such a prospect, but it must be done.

“Do whatever is necessary,” Lawliet says dismissively, “Watari.  Take the proper precautions, but do whatever needs to be done.  I don’t care.  Just get her to confess.” He doesn’t like how he sounds, but he has no choice. 

 

* * *

 

 

They wait three days.

He doesn’t think too hard about it.

Six hundred years has trained him well in channeling and censoring his own thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

“Kill me,” Misa Amane breathes on the third day. “I can’t take it anymore. Hurry up and kill me.”

“Does this mean you are admitting to being the Second Kira?” Lawliet whispers through the microphone as he peers at the screen. The task force is silent; the walls of the old hotel room are closing in on them, like sawdust scrambling to clog their lungs.  He can’t help but notice it’s been harder for him to breathe these days. 

“No! I don’t know anything about the Second Kira,” Misa says, her voice breaking.

He remembers a clearer voice, on a clearer day. _Ryuga, you’re so funny!_

“I can’t take this anymore.  I’d rather die,” she says now, twisting in the chair to no avail. She is tears on cold cheeks, hands reaching for nothing and bound by fear, cracked lips praying to something that could never hear her.  “Now hurry up and kill me.  You should be able to kill me immediately, right?”

Desperation cracks into her, like a shell.

 _Silence._ Lawliet says nothing; he’s not at a loss, but he’s breaking too.

“Fine.  If you won’t kill me,” she says, trailing off.

“Watari!” Lawliet calls into the microphone. “Don’t let her bite her tongue.”

Quillsh rushes forward, hastily tucks a bit of fabric around her mouth so that she's incapable of harming herself.

_Could it be possible that these are actions controlled by Kira before death?_

Frustration curls in Lawliet's fingers. He wants to cut his fingerprints off.

 

* * *

 

 

Is it a trick of his eyes, when he sees a bit of Misa’s hair pushed from her forehead?

He bites his lip and leans forward.

From what he can tell, she loses consciousness.

The murmurs and struggling stop.

 

* * *

 

 

_Light Yagami is Kira; he has to be._

There isn’t concrete proof – there is no confession, but his suspicion grows greater with every moment.

_There is proof he is my One._

_It doesn’t matter._

 

* * *

 

 

He’s about to put a piece of chocolate in his mouth, watching the cameras as usual, when he hears something that freezes him.

“Mister…Mister Stalker?”

His hand lowers from his mouth.

“Mister Stalker, where are you? Let’s stop playing this game.”

Misa smiles a bit, like she’s nervous.

“Stalker?” Lawliet says quietly in turn, peering more closely at the screen as if leaning forward could help him hear more clearly, or otherwise decipher the meaning of the word.  From behind him, the task force murmurs their confusion – they lean closer to the television.  “What does this mean?”

“Her attitude completely changed all of a sudden,” Aizawa mutters, clasping a hand to his jaw. 

Aizawa has been in a state of perpetual distress the past few days, clearly uncomfortable with the proceedings.

_What is this?_

Chills run down Lawliet’s spine.

“Mister Stalker, this is illegal. Please stop it.”

Misa’s voice is less broken, but equally pleading as before.

“Please, stop it!” she cries.

Lawliet’s thumb is pressed to his lips, and there it stays.

 

* * *

 

 

It goes on like this for a long enough while; her voice is soft and pleading, like a ghost of a wail piercing through the space between them.  Matsuda is pacing unevenly, nervously, refusing to speak as he runs a hand through his hair repeatedly; he’s wholly unequipped to handle the situation.  Aizawa, on the other hand, mutters cryptic observations. 

“She’s been acting like this since she passed out earlier.”

“Does she think she can act dumb like this?” Matsuda whispers from his corner of the room, only to be met with silence from Lawliet.  Soichiro sits in the chair farthest from them, his head in his hands. 

“Okay, I know,” Misa says, struggling against the chains.  “Could you at least take my blindfold off?  I really want to see what you look like.”

Lawliet frowns.  “Mr. Matsuda,” he says softly, “can you give Mr. Mogi a call?”

Matsuda hastily pulls the phone from his pocket and dials, handing it to Lawliet within a moment. 

Mogi answers almost instantly. “Hello?” he says, almost sleepily.

“When you apprehended Misa Amane,” Lawliet says, raising his voice as the realization dawns on him, “you told her that we suspect her of being the Second Kira, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  I did as you told me to,” Mogi returns, after a brief pause; Lawliet can easily picture him furrowing his brow, pressing a hand to his forehead with the weight of the memory.  “I covered her eyes and mouth from behind and told her so she could hear, ‘You’re going to come with me on suspicion of being the Second Kira.’  She didn’t seem to struggle.  It seemed like she’d…given up.”

Lawliet pauses.  “Thank you, Mogi.”  When he hangs up the phone, he’s filled by something increasingly familiar to him – the weight of emptiness, as tangible as anything else.

From the monitor, Misa continues to make bargains. “Please!” she offers. “I’ll give you an autograph or shake your hand.  Or I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek!  Please – I won’t run away, I promise.  You have my word.”

_We’ve made so much progress with her._

  
_Why is she suddenly talking about a stalker?_

He flicks the microphone switch on.

“Misa Amane.”

“What?  Mister Stalker – are you planning on releasing me?”  She immediately straightens, as much as she can, when hears Lawliet’s voice.

“You were quiet before you fell asleep,” Lawliet murmurs.  “You asked us to kill you. Are you trying to give us trouble now?”

Misa pauses, and when she speaks, the questions running through her mind are practically audible through almost no words at all. “What are you talking about?” she asks. “You’re the one who knocked me out and brought me here, aren’t you?  So, what?  Do you want to investigate me, or something, as part of a sick fantasy or something like that?”

She’s stumbling over her words, and it’s not lost on Matsuda and Aizawa, who are suddenly tripping over each other to climb closer to the screen.  Lawliet, for his part, feels as though the breath has been knocked from his lungs.

“Do you know why I’m detaining you here?” he whispers through the microphone.

 “Why? Because I’m an idol?” she says quickly in turn, biting her lip.  “You’re the first stalker who’s ever gone this far, and you’re starting to scare me.”

Before Lawliet has the chance to speak, Matsuda leans forward and grabs the microphone, his hands visibly shaking with the frustration of it.  “Hey!” he practically shouts, his voice breaking.  “Amane, quit fooling around!”

“W-what is this?” Misa says softly, and Lawliet suddenly feels as though he’s reeling.  “Untie me!  You have to let me go – at least let me go to the bathroom – isn’t that what you want to see, you…you pervert?” She spits the last word, struggling against the chains even harder than before. 

He doesn’t let it faze him, but he imagines the way Light would derisively smirk at the insult.  _Don’t think of Light._   “Amane,” he says, a new coldness settling into his voice, “let’s seriously talk more about what happened before you went to sleep.”  He pauses, swallows – bites back the things threatening to close his throat.  “Do you know Light Yagami? Why did you approach him?”

Misa’s posture changes quickly. “Huh?” she says, but there’s a bit of a smile on her lips.  “There’s no way I wouldn’t know my own boyfriend.”

_She was so tight-lipped about it earlier…_

A strange pang in his stomach, like he’s standing in the rain staring up at the sky – letting it crash around him, watching the stars explode as supernovas one by one.  There’s something ethereal about what he’s seeing – something, a strange prickling in his palms. 

…but now she nonchalantly says that he’s her boyfriend?

 _Boyfriend._  As if Light Yagami would….

He wonders absently if Misa has started aging – if it were possible that she thought Light was her One – and the idea makes his head feel dizzyingly sick.

“What the hell is going on?” Matsuda says, bunching his hands into fists indignantly.  Lawliet pays him no mind, as his cell phone rings, and he moves to answer it.

_As if on cue._

“It’s from Light?” he murmurs as he watches the number flash on the screen.  _Light._ He inadvertently thinks of the beginning of their walk, the brightness of amber eyes as he said, _“It’s a date.”_   The glare of the city just outside the hotel window; and, now, with the curtain closed tightly, the absence of sound and of the concrete feeling he existed.  _That’s what he does – he reminds you that you are alive._

_That you were alive, and that you are dying – a macabre background story to something that should be love._

“It’s Light,” he says again, his tone hardening. He registers distantly the way that Soichiro almost instantly snaps into an upright position, leaning forward. “Turn the visuals and sound off.”

When he answers the phone, his voice is calm, but he feels the blood rushing closely to his skin, like he’d sipped too deeply of wine and was hovering between finding his footing and relishing in losing. “Hello, Light?” he says.

“I’d like to come help the investigation,” Light says, without even saying hello.  He’s tripping over his own words, albeit smoothly.  “I’d like to come see you.  May I?”

His voice, while relatively unfamiliar, sounds like something he’d have spent his whole life learning – etching onto his hands on the breaks between cells, threaded deeply into all the hollows of his bones and his veins.  _Like home._

“Mmm.  Yes. I suppose so,” Lawliet says, glancing at the blank monitor wreathed in darkness.  He holds his own hand up, and notices that it looks like a skeleton’s hand – empty.  _You should be here; we can be more than just bones._   “We’re in room K2801.”

Without waiting for Light’s response, Lawliet flips the phone shut.  “Matsuda, go wait for him,” he says dismissively, and gestures towards the door.

“My son is coming here?” Soichiro says; he sounds vaguely horrified.  Lawliet glances at him, nods curtly just once, and turns away.

_Now is no time for weakness._

_Light Yagami is the prime suspect for Kira._

_Forget about Ones._

He closes his eyes once, and when he opens them, he hears the door opening.  He doesn’t turn around.  _This may be the end for you and I._

The heavy silence of the room is close to deafening. None of them move an inch, but Lawliet somehow feels Light’s presence as closely as if Light were his shadow; they are paper and string, nails dug into skin and a kiss left empty on lips. _He's the number one suspect._

_The truth will probably never become public._

“Ryuzaki,” Light says softly. _A voice like home._ “I meant to tell you over the phone, but I wanted to wait.”  He pauses, breathes deeply; his words are stuck onto Lawliet’s arms. “I think I may be Kira.”

_Kira.  One. Kira.  One._

Lawliet clenches his hands tightly around his legs, from being curled up on the chair.  _May be_.  Not a full concession, but it’s enough to steal his breath.  He imagines Quillsh in the car from so long ago, when he admitted to having started aging; silence heavy and like saltwater tears on glassy cheeks; he remembers standing at the graveyard, looking up from underneath the umbrella as the rain graced his hair and fell like bits of heaven, splashing onto the ground in a terrible waste.

A terrible waste indeed.

_Or was it?_

Predictably, the air is filled in almost an instant with quiet gasps.  Lawliet imagines Light – his shadow, head downcast and eyes keen on the floor – standing behind him.  He barely registers the very idea of sound as he hears Soichiro fighting for breath, calling through quickened, almost panicked inhalations –

“That’s impossible!  Light, what are you talking about?”  Hands grabbing firmly onto shoulders, shadows of eyelashes cast on cheekbones, closed curtains – _the world would never see._

“Why would you even say something like that?” Matsuda whispers, barely heard.

“What’s wrong?  Tell me!”

Soichiro is standing partially in front of Light, but when Lawliet turns in his seat to glance over his shoulder, he sees that Light is staring keenly at him and no one else, his eyes dark and filled with something sick.  Time slows – the clock is full of dust, they dance between the mechanisms, falling in the middle. The sky is the dome of a timepiece and they are the seconds lost and irretrievable.

_Don’t fall in love – too much to lose._

_There’s no proof that Light Yagami is Kira, but for him to say he might be Kira…_

His head is reeling, racing against the clock. _It’s an act.  It must be an act.  It’s not that you may be Kira, it’s that you are Kira – what in the world are you trying to do?_

“Dad,” Light says, turning his head slightly downcast to the side, and Lawliet watches with narrowed eyes.  “If Ryuzaki is L, I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that he’s the world’s greatest detective.” 

He looks at Lawliet with a heavy expression – undoubtedly contrived – and deliberately runs a hand through his hair, pausing slightly at his temple.  The gesture isn’t lost on Lawliet, who nearly winces.  “L has decided that I must be Kira,” Light continues, biting his lip, “and therefore, I must be.”

“What are you talking about, Light?” Soichiro asks, shaking Light’s shoulders, visibly panicked.  Lawliet feels the world crash underneath the chair – like he and Light are the only two people in the room, like they’re still standing in the darkness of a room lit by the city alone, a quick touch at his waist, a new life born quickly from the flash of a butterfly’s wings and the falling of cherry blossoms.

“I’m the one that Raye Penber, that FBI Agent, was investigating when he died,” Light murmurs, and Lawliet looks away, biting his thumb until he bleeds backwards from the skin.  “And I was in Aoyama on May twenty-second. And I’m the first person that the alleged Second Kira approached in the Kanto region.”  He pauses, audibly swallowing and clearing his throat. “It’s all me.  It’s always been me.”

_It’s always been you._

_It would’ve always been you, no matter what world we were born into._

_Isn’t that what this always means?_

“If I were in L’s place, even I would say that I’m Kira,” Light says calmly, and Lawliet glances over quickly to see the way he holds his hands up – palms facing the ceiling, like he were hopeless – as if it were all a matter outside of his jurisdiction.  “See… I may be Kira, I just might not know it.”

The air around them is cold, like snowflakes settled onto their skin when they were unaware.  Lawliet bites his tongue.  _I see… You’re not conscious of it, huh?_

“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Light says quietly, and he glances up to look at Lawliet. 

_Are you sure of that?  Don’t you remember who we are?_

_Love is thicker than forgetting; or it should be._

“Even if I have no memory, there could be another me who’s killing people as I sleep.”

_Loving him is like watching the stars disintegrate; it will never happen._

“That’s impossible,” Lawliet cuts in, his voice harsh – left stinging and bitter like someone had left lacerations on his ankles and wrists, as he turns away from facing Light.  The principle of it is clogging his head with a dangerous fog.

Light inhales sharply.  “What do you mean, Ryuzaki?” 

“Actually, there was a time when I put surveillance cameras in your room for five days straight,” Lawliet says, almost boredly, to rebuke Light's proposition.

“Cameras?” Light asks, sounding borderline incredulous.  _He must know.  This is nothing new._

“Ah.  Yes. You slept normally at night,” Lawliet returns evenly.  “Broadcasted criminals that you didn’t know about were still dying.  But I decided that even if you were Kira, you wouldn’t give yourself away on camera.” 

_I was drawn to you, even then, I suppose – even if I thought I’d live forever.  You were always poisonous that way._

“Won’t give myself away, huh?” Light says, a trace of shame implicit in his words.  “That may be true.  Well, up to a certain point, I believe some major criminals should die, especially ones who haven’t started aging yet.  I think anyone who has such thoughts could become Kira.” 

Lawliet frowns, remaining so entirely still that he’s almost able to hear the rush of his own heart beating in his chest. He’s tempted to say something spiteful about aging – but he knows better than to lash out, and he is the picture of calm. 

“I understand, Light!” Matsuda cries, so suddenly that Lawliet flinches from where he sits in the char. “I believe the same thing! I’ve thought it would be better if quite a few people were dead.  But even so, we can’t really kill people, can we?  Besides, criminals were dying while you had no knowledge of them. The surveillance cameras proved it, didn’t they?” He sounds fiercely protective, and Lawliet throws a glance over his shoulder to see that Matsuda is staring keenly at Light – right by his side, rather close –

He opens his mouth to say something, anything to draw Matsuda away from how closely he stands to Light, the thought crashing onto his head just at the same moment as Matsuda’s eyes begin to widen.

_Oh, no._

_Grey hair._ If he’s standing that close, being so protective – not even Soichiro was standing so close – and Light is more disheveled than usual from being shaken by Soichiro, it’s not unlikely that he could see….

Judging by the way Matsuda suddenly goes pale after squinting intently, he sees it.  He lifts his hands to his mouth, suddenly stuttering with clumsy lips and abruptly failing to remember where he is.  He automatically steps backward, and with his free hand he’s suddenly pulling at his own hair, muttering something inarticulate in apparent panic.

“L-Light,” he says after a moment, stuttering over the name.  “L-Light, you…”

_Not now._

Maybe Light realizes the same thing, because he lifts his head to look at Matsuda, his eyes bright and guarded.

“Mr. Matsuda,” Lawliet says sharply, almost leaping to his feet.  “Mr. Matsuda. Remain on task. We’ll have time later to discuss such details.”

_There will be a time…_

Matsuda nods, slowly lowering his hand from his lips, inhaling deeply.  Lawliet glances at Light, who is looking at him with something that is not quite gratitude, but not ambivalence, either.  Soichiro is apparently ambivalent to the proceedings, still distracted by the admission of Light to being Kira.

Aizawa, on the other hand, is staring intently at the floor.  “N-no,” he says carefully, his voice barely masking a subtle anger; it’s clear he’d been thinking for the duration of the conversation, when he’d been silent. “We were short of investigators then, during the cameras.  We only watched him when he was at home.  It’s also not as if we were watching him every hour during those five days.  There may have been a way for him to kill when he wasn’t at home.”

_Thank you for changing the subject, my friend._

Lawliet inhales slowly, and picks up the coffee mug that had been sitting in front of him on the small table. He wants the sugar to coat his tongue – but the warmth that burns him brings him nothing desirable. _Did you purposefully come out in order for this to happen, Light Yagami?_

The idea of restraining him for a long period of time, as with Misa Amane, brings a strange and apprehensive thrill to his stomach. If they imprisoned him and criminals continued to die, the implication would be that Light Yagami was innocent – and that must be the end goal of this conversation.

_Did you bank on Mr. Matsuda figuring out your secret?_

_...And me figuring out your other secret?_

“I don’t particularly like the direction of this conversation,” Lawliet says listlessly, setting the coffee mug back on the table.  “But…fine.” Without something in his hands, the want of being touched plagues him – restricts him from thinking clearly. He’s distracted by the idea of Light; if, in any other world, they might have gone walking underneath the brightness of the city, clasped hands together on top of skyscrapers, pretended to kiss the stars.  If they stretched just a little further, maybe they could reach the heavens. 

In spite of his immediate instinct, Lawliet frowns and says, dropping any form of intonation, “Fully restrain Light Yagami, and confine him in a cell.”

_This is the end for us._

“What?” Soichiro yells, followed by Matsuda calling, albeit with somewhat more fear, “You’re going to…detain Light?”

_I know._

“We should do this now,” Lawliet says, running a finger along the edge of his coffee mug; he doesn’t care if it burns him. “You won’t be able to go anywhere where my eyes can’t see you.”

He thinks of an old bookstore, one he used to work at; the light shimmering in through windows, making dust beautiful as it swirled in glorious patterns.  Old books glimmered with gold and brown, and he thinks of the life he might’ve had.   _And now I’ve seen you, I’ll never be able to stop seeing you._

“T-this is crazy,” Soichiro stutters, caught by the web of his own shock.  “There’s no way that my son is Kira.  My son wouldn’t…”

“It’s fine, Dad,” Light says quietly. “I can’t help you catch Kira if I keep worrying that I might be who you’re searching for. In exchange, until you decide I’m not Kira, or agree that I’m not Kira, don’t let me go free.”

Lawliet pauses, like he had glossed his fingertips over flames and left himself burned. 

“No matter what I say or what condition I’m in,” Light insists, his voice suddenly serious, “don’t let me go.”

_Don’t let me go._

_Don’t let go of me._

_I won’t._

“Understood,” Lawliet says flatly, ignoring the strange buzzing of his stomach.  “Mr. Yagami, could you come up with an excuse for Light’s absence from your family? Please do it now.”

“But why does he have to be thrown into a prison?” Soichiro asks, and Lawliet’s heart pangs.

_I wish it wasn’t this way, too, you know.  But we have no choice._

“You’re being stubborn, Dad,” Light says firmly. “I can’t be satisfied with myself unless I do this.”

“Light, are you serious?”

The conversation playing out in the background of his thoughts, Lawliet glances sideways at Matsuda, who is staring at him with a peculiar intensity, his eyes still opened wide, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“By taking away my freedom,” Light says, “I’ll be able to defeat the fear that Kira lies within me.”

Matsuda paces closer to Lawliet, and Lawliet frowns.  

_Not now.  Not like this._

“It’s a small price to pay, for a lifetime of peace.”

Light’s voice is always there, whispering things to the back of his mind. 

“Mr. Matsuda,” Lawliet says softly, turning his head away, but Matsuda is unrelentingly close. 

_Time slows._

“Ryuzaki….” Matsuda whispers, and he peers even closer. “I just…”

“Mr. Matsuda, please stop.”

Lawliet glances at Light, whose eyes are wide as he watches.

Matsuda gasps.

_He's looking at the side of my head.  He saw... He saw my grey hair, too._

Lawliet digs his nails into his jeans.

There was a reason he’d always kept the lights down so low in the hotel room.

It was only a matter of time….

Lawliet shoots him a deliberate look.

“We’ll talk later, Mr. Matsuda,” he says sharply.

Matsuda nods, and his cheeks are burning.

 

* * *

 

 

They put a blindfold and handcuffs on Light. It’s Lawliet who puts the blindfold on, and he ignores the way his hands are shaking when he touches Light’s hair. Aizawa lends the handcuffs, and Lawliet thinks of his dreams when it’s him who’s holding Light’s wrists.

_This is the end for you and I._

“Aizawa, take care of that,” Lawliet says, a bit harshly, glancing sideways at Matsuda, who is still staring at him. He places a hand, quickly, at Light’s back, turning him around to face Aizawa.  The touch is fleeting, but his hands are burning.

 

* * *

 

 

The monitor now shows a split screen, between Misa and Light.  Lawliet watches it in silence, refusing to acknowledge any of the presences of the task force – particularly Matsuda.  He can’t bring himself to eat.

“Ryuzaki,” Soichiro says softly, sometime within the first hour.  _Time is so flexible_.  He's apt to lose track of it - or otherwise give it away. “Please take me off the investigation.”

“Chief?” Aizawa sputters almost instantly. “What?  Why?  We need you here!”

_This is predictable.  I planned for this._

“We’re holding my son as a suspect in the case,” Soichiro says.  “I shouldn’t be here. Regardless of whether we should investigate him, when we were talking about confining him, I let my personal feelings get in the way.”

“That’s true,” Lawliet says without thinking about it. “Personal feelings most certainly shouldn’t be involved.”

 _Hypocrite,_ Beyond Birthday would laugh at him.

_I guess it’s a good thing I’m not in love with my One._

“R-Ryuzaki….” stutters Matsuda, suddenly rushing to stand by Lawliet’s chair.  “I-I don’t think we should kick someone off the case for that…”

_Ah, of course.  You know the secret._

“And if my son is Kira,” Soichiro continues, as though he hadn’t heard any of it, “I don’t know what kind of actions I may take.” His voice is heavy.

“Yes,” says Lawliet, his blood running cold. “I can imagine that you would…kill your son, and then kill yourself.”

_No…_

“I agree that we shouldn’t have you here,” he continues, as though bored.

_We can’t put him in danger.  I won’t allow it._

“So, Ryuzaki,” says Soichiro, after a moment, “could you confine me as well?”

Gasps fill the room, echo and whisper. Their gasps could tell the stories for themselves, but Lawliet is quiet stone, heedless marble.

“I’m calm now,” Soichiro adds, “but I don’t know what I’ll do when my feelings for my son…”

“I thought you may say something like that,” Lawliet says quickly, cutting him off, “so I’ve had Watari make arrangements.” It’s unusually difficult for him to hear such things.  “However, even though I’m confining you, please keep your cell phone on as usual. Maintain regular contact with your family and people from the outside.  We won’t tell Light about this.”  He pauses. “If Light calls you, talk to him as if you’re right here, at headquarters.  We’ll also continue to give you updates of what’s going on in the investigation.”

“I’m indebted to you, Ryuzaki.”

_And so it was done._

 

* * *

 

 

Aizawa leaves home first on that night, so it’s just Matsuda and Lawliet in the living room.  The energy between them hums and pulses; Matsuda, with his childish faith and his observations, caught in the middle of something he can’t possibly yearn to truly fathom.  Outside, rain begins to fall; they can hear it from the window.

“Don’t speak of it to anyone,” Lawliet says sharply, the instant they’re alone.

It’s no secret what he refers to.

“You’re both aging,” Matsuda says quietly. “I had no idea. At the same pace, too… So that means… Are you…?”

Lawliet glances away, and stares directly in front of him at the screen.  All three of them – Misa and Light and Soichiro – had fallen asleep.  He has it under his tongue, the words he searches for, and wants the truth to burst from his skin; he’s blessed certainly – it’s fair enough, given that to be blessed, means to have been made to bleed.  He is carved from the bottom of Pandora’s Box; he is a secret he wants to keep, but he knows he can’t – he shouldn’t – hold it back when all the evidence is obvious.

He could lie.  But he doesn’t.

“You are right,” Lawliet says flatly. “Light Yagami is my One.”

Outside, the paper skyline housing paper people with their paper hearts – all manufactured to find each other, to fall in love, and he’s standing on the outside of it all, as he has for six hundred years. Instead of being paper, he is glass.

“Excuse me for asking,” Matsuda asks, wringing his hands, “but do you think you’re… Is it okay for you to be working on this case?”

Lawliet shoots him a deliberate glare. “Of course,” he says. “If I weren’t capable, I’d have delegated the task to someone else by now.”  He thinks of Nate, of Mihael and Matt.  “But I’m not in love with him.  I understand how he thinks.  I have the advantage.”

“But…doesn’t everyone fall in love with their Ones?” Matsuda asks, a bit awkwardly.

 _Don’t be ridiculous._ “Not everyone.  It’s not a requirement,” Lawliet says smoothly.  “I’m only working to solve the case, nothing more.”

_And with just one touch, I became lost._

“It means nothing,” Lawliet adds, watching as Matsuda frowns.  “But we have to keep this a secret for as long as we can.  There would likely be a riot if anyone found out, and it’s important to keep personal feelings out of investigations.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Matsuda asks, “but since Light is your One, does…does that mean it’s less likely that he’d be Kira? Because if he were, he’d be working to…to kill you, wouldn’t he?”

“Mmm.  Yes. That’s correct,” Lawliet says, glancing at the curtains.  “But somehow I don’t suspect Kira would let any such thing get in the way, particularly if his psyche has reached…god-like proportions.”  He trails off with a soft hum.  “In any case, it doesn’t matter much.” 

“And you’re going to keep this…a secret? Won’t everyone else see it too, eventually?”

“I’m hoping we’ll have solved the case by then.”

Outside, the rain falls harder.

_I’m hoping that we’ll be done with each other by then, even if I’m damned to dream of him for the rest of my life._

 

* * *

 

 

Day three of confinement.

Since being detained, criminals names have been broadcast, and Kira hasn’t killed anyone.

The silence is the worst part.

 

* * *

 

It had seemed as though Light Yagami wanted to be detained, to prove that he was not Kira, assuming that the heart attacks would continue.

But if criminals have stopped dying –

_Does Light really think that he’ll be able to go free by citing he wasn’t conscious of his actions as Kira?_

_It’s not like Light Yagami, and it’s not like Kira._

 

* * *

 

Fifth day of confinement. 

Lawliet’s arms and legs are sore, like an old rhyme.

Not a single criminal whose name has been broadcast has died.

 

* * *

 

Seventh day of confinement.

The rain outside falls so heavy that it threatens to wash away their sins and their secrets, and Lawliet finds another grey hair. He’s hit with the weight of dizziness, but shrugs it off.

Lawliet speaks to Light through the microphone.

“You’ve only been here one week, but it can’t be easy. Are you feeling alright?”

_I shouldn’t have thought of it, but I’d still want you to touch me._

Light lifts his head, a small smile at his lips.

“Yeah.  I know I probably look pretty bad in here,” he says.  “But…this useless pride.  I’ll just have to…”  He pauses, for the briefest of moments. “Get rid of it.”

Lawliet frowns, and leans closer to the screen.

It feels as though he blinks – only for a single moment, the weight of time leaning down on their spans, an entire universe captured in a second – but he closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he sees something different on the screen.

He knows the curve of Light’s jaw – he knows the way his eyes narrow carefully with thought, he knows the way he holds his lips with secretive poetry left unsaid, small smirks and the crash of sirens around them – he knows Light’s face, but when he peers through the screen, it’s almost as though Lawliet is seeing someone different.

He blinks.

Another second gone.

_What is this?_

He feels a rush of something unfamiliar in his own veins, like someone breathed new life into him.

“Ryuzaki?” Light calls to the camera. He sounds different - younger.  Scared.

“I know agreed to be detained, and I chose to do this, but I just now clearly realized that this is meaningless. It’s because I’m not Kira!” Light gasps.

Lawliet straightens at the same time as Matsuda and Aizawa gasp, caught off balance by what they saw in the glassy screen.

“You have to come get me out of here!” Light cries, suddenly digging at the ground with his fingernails.   _Careful, Light, you’ll bleed…_ “Come get me! Please save me!”

Lawliet leans into the microphone, fighting against anything other than ambivalence.  “I can’t do that,” he says calmly.  “We promised that no matter what you said, I wouldn’t let you out until we decided on whether or not you were Kira.”

“Please! L,” Light says, his eyes widening, breath hitching; he fights against the handcuffs, scraping them against the ground as he shoves against the floor.  “There was something wrong with me then!  Do you really think that Kira would be able to operate without being conscious of it? I don’t remember committing Kira’s crimes, so I’m not him!”

“I also don’t believe,” Lawliet concedes mildly, his heart racing, “that Kira has been acting without self-awareness this whole time. But if you are him, everything matches up.”

“Listen, Ryuzaki, hear me out,” says Light, pleading. _He’s frightened_.  The smugness in the lines of his jaw is replaced by something foreign, Lawliet realizes.  “I swear to you, I’m not lying, I’m not Kira!  I can only think that I’ve been framed!”  His voice breaks, shattering like he’d been dropped from an immense height. He’s visibly shaking, kicking his feet lightly on the ground of the cell.

_Who are you?_

_What’s wrong with you, Light Yagami?_

“R-Ryuzaki…” Matsuda stutters. “He asked y-you to come get him… Maybe you s-should…”

Lawliet doesn’t acknowledge him.

_What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, but for some reason…_

_It feels like the truth._

“Hurry up and get me out of here!” Light yells, and within an instant he’s screaming.  “We’re wasting time!”  His eyes are wider than ever before, filled with terror that he makes no attempt to mask.

As if in a daze, Lawliet replies faintly, “No. I can’t let you out.”

_I don’t want to waste time, either, Light Yagami.  It's valuable currency for you and I._

“He’s contradicting himself,” Aizawa says quietly. “It makes no logical sense.”

“Ryuzaki!” Light screams.  “Get me out of here, I need you!  I can help you!”  He jams his lip between his teeth and lowers his head, thrashing senselessly against the handcuffs.  “We don’t have much time left!”

Matsuda inhales sharply, and Lawliet’s stomach is abruptly filled with apprehensive butterflies; gone is his feigned smugness, and gone is Light’s confident demeanor. 

_What the hell is this?_

 

* * *

 

Fifteenth day of confinement, and the world is a calm shade of blue.

The headline is made with broken fingers – two weeks’ worth of criminals are killed within one day.  Aizawa reads the newspaper headlines in a broken chair with the stuffing falling out of its legs; Lawliet is shaking, but he hides it in the static of the television screen. 

Matsuda runs through the door, kicking it in swiftly. He’s breathing so heavily it’s almost impossible to decipher his words.  “All those criminals!  Killed!” he gasps, leaning on his knees, his eyes wide with panic.

“It's true. Kira is back,” Aizawa murmurs.

“Did you tell the Chief?”

“Not yet.”

Lawliet is silent as Matsuda rushes to grab the microphone, and practically shouts into it.  “Chief!” he cries, and Soichiro looks up from where he sits on an old, plastic folding chair within his cell. “Kira started killing again!”

“What?”

Soichiro looks to be in bad shape – he’s unshaven, his hair hangs in his face, and his posture is that of someone rather defeated, but at the sound of Matsuda’s voice, he lifts his head and leaps to his feet.

“Yes!” Matsuda says.  “Kira was just resting.  He started killing criminals again!”

“Then… My son….”

_And Light…_

_My One._   Lawliet shivers, feeling his skin flush warmly, an unwelcome twinge of anticipation building at his stomach. 

“He’s in the grey,” Lawliet says in turn to Matsuda, who beams at him.  “Not completely cleared yet.”

“Well, that’s great!” Matsuda says brightly. “He’s a shade closer to being clear. I’ll tell Light, too!”

He moves for the microphone corresponding to Light's cell, and Lawliet instantly panics.  “Stop! Matsuda!” he yells, leaping to his feet and slapping Matsuda’s hand away from the microphone. Matsuda glances at him, visibly puzzled and hurt, and he amends his words.  “Sorry.  Mr. Matsuda. Please stop.”

He grabs the microphone and holds it to his chest, unwilling to let it out of his grip.  “Don’t tell Light.  We shouldn’t tell Light about this,” he says coldly. 

“W-why?” stutters Matsuda, his voice the audible manifestation of his hurt, but Lawliet ignores him in favor of speaking into the microphone.

“Light,” he says calmly.

“Ryuzaki,” Light replies after a moment, without lifting his head.  “What is it?”

“It’s been over two weeks,” Lawliet says. “There haven’t been any new killings. Won’t you just give up and confess that you are Kira?”

“Don’t say stupid things like that, Ryuzaki,” Light hisses, but he lacks conviction.  “You’re wrong.  I can understand why you deduced that I’m Kira from the investigation, but it’s a trap. I’m not Kira!  Zoom in and look at my eyes, or something like that!”

Light struggles, arching his back against the cinderblock wall, and Lawliet fights the urge to say something stupid. _I should be there._  “Tell me,” Light demands, “if these look like the eyes of someone who’s lying.  You’d know better than anyone else!  Look at my hair! You know me, you know I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t do that to you!”

Matsuda whistles through his teeth, and Aizawa mutters something about being confused.

But there’s no time for fooling around and for worrying about the implications of Light’s ramblings.  Lawliet grabs the other microphone to address Misa. “Amane,” he says clearly, resisting the urge to let his voice shake.  “You’re really sure that you don’t know who Kira is, aren’t you?”

“Huh?” she says softly, lifting her head a little. “That again?  That’s what I want to know!  Kira is a hero of justice who punished the burglar who killed my parents.”

Lawliet leans forward, alarmed by the immediate concession.  There’s more confusion than blood in his veins – each time he speaks through the microphone, there’s a new mystery, a new piece for the puzzle.  _I genuinely don’t understand what’s going on._

_But I’m going to find out._

 

* * *

 

Thirty-five more days pass without new developments.  Criminals continue to die in the same old pattern.

Lawliet instructs Quillsh to buy hair dye for Light to cover the grey hairs on the side of his head.  Quillsh helps him to dye it when no one else is watching; his hair becomes slightly more plain brown, losing its tinges of red, but it’s generally unnoticeable.

_It’s in no one’s best interest that such truths would be revealed._

Lawliet himself does the same – he rubs dark, raven-black hair dye onto his roots, leaves it sticking up at odd angles, watches as the circles under his eyes become more prominent with every day.  When he pulls away, his hands are stained with something like charcoal, and he stares, unable to look away.  He blinks, unaware of the fact that time is passing.

_We’re wasting time._

_My life is ending._

He thinks about that, sometimes.

_My life is ending._

For Lawliet’s part, he instructs Quillsh to buy him blue roses; when he takes a bath, he throws them onto the water, just so he can watch their reflections.  He climbs into the tub and curls his legs close to himself, resting his head on his own shoulder, closing his eyes.  He doesn’t care about the scrapes from thorns on his legs and arms – he barely notices them. If anything, they remind him he’s still alive, when the rest of the world is quiet and ambivalent.

In time, the petals fall apart from the stems, and all over the surface of the bath is a sea of violet-blue. Lawliet looks to the ceiling, breathing slowly.  He went rather a long time without being touched – centuries, even, without caring anything for it – and somehow he still misses the way Light had casually brushed his fingers against his long ago.  Sometimes, when it’s late and he’s gone days without sleeping, he’s afraid that he’d take the opportunity again, and grab Light’s hand to tuck underneath the shirt, to feel his skin and erase the space between them. 

_Sleep, dream, blame him, love him still. Blame him, hate him, wear his pleas like a shirt and like a safety blanket, ditch the shoes forever, wear a marble smile – or something in between – and gorge on chocolate and peel the wrappers off of old bottles and rip open boxes from the hair dye and blame him, still, and love him still._

But this isn’t bravery, and this isn’t love. It’s the story of someone who knows he shouldn’t be dying.

He barely thinks of Beyond Birthday anymore, save for wondering on the off chance that someone so riddled with torment could be veritably telling the truth.

 

* * *

 

It’s the fiftieth day, and Aizawa and Matsuda stand behind the chair in which Lawliet sits like always.

“Mr. Yagami, are you alright?” Lawliet asks quietly through the microphone.  “There’s no reason for you to stay there like that.”  Soichiro’s head is in his hands, as he leads forward onto his knees in the old fold-up chair.  It’s as though he’s guilty for the very weight of the world.

“It’s been over a month since Kira started to kill criminals again,” Soichiro says dully, without looking up to the camera. “I am sure that my son isn’t Kira. Now, all that’s left is for you to be sure.  I’ll get out when my son does.”

“The Chief sure is stubborn,” Matsuda says softly.

Lawliet flips between microphones, and directs his attention to the camera focused on Light’s room.  Light is lying on the floor on his side, hands tucked behind him with the handcuffs; Lawliet feels a pang of something unfamiliar in his stomach. “Light, are you alright?” he asks politely.

There’s a heavy silence before Light shifts a little to stare at the camera.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, but in spite of his words, his voice is weak. “Although... Ryuzaki… Criminals have stopped dying since I’ve been confined.  That suggests to me that it’s highly likely Kira is someone who knows about my situation.  If we follow this line of reasoning –"

Lawliet bites his lip.  “No, Light,” he says calmly, cutting him off before he can say anything more.  “Criminals are not dying because you are Kira.”

_He may admit to it this time._

“No!” Light protests, shaking his head fervently. “I am not Kira. How many times must I say it before you understand?”

_Kira should know that the killings have begun again. He isn’t bluffing; he honestly seems clueless._

“This is just cruel, Ryuzaki,” Aizawa says flatly from behind him.  “You haven’t told Light that criminals are being killed again.”

Lawliet pays him no mind as he flips the switch for the next microphone.  “Amane,” he says. “I know you’re tired, but are you alright?”

“Are you stupid?” she says faintly, lifting her head from where she remains slumped over against the table. “There’d be something wrong with me if I were fine after all these days.”

“Yes.  That’s true,” Lawliet says, somewhat thoughtfully.

“Let me go,” she says, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I want to see Light.”

_I know the feeling._

“See Light,” she whispers again, and again, like a prayer until he flicks the microphone off.  He doesn't want to listen to it.

Chills run along his spine.

“It seems like all three are at their limits,” Matsuda says from behind the chair.  “Ryuzaki, why are you still confining Light?”

“You should let him go.  Right now,” Aizawa adds, gritting his teeth. “When you let Light go, the Chief will come out, too.  Criminals are dying even though Light and Misa aren’t able to obtain any information. It’s over.”

“That’s not true,” Lawliet says dryly. “All we really know is that Misa harbors an unnaturally strong love for Light Yagami.”

_She should’ve been his One instead._

Aizawa makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, visibly exasperated, “Sorry, but I think you’re doing this the wrong way. You don’t want to admit you were wrong about Light.”

_I have to be sure._

_Otherwise I might let myself love him._

“I thought you might think that,” Lawliet says in response to Aizawa.

“And Light has said, Kira’s killed Lind L. Tailor and the FBI agents.  If Kira could kill under surveillance without obtaining any information,” Aizawa adds, his voice a low growl that causes Matsuda to step away, “then he would’ve have needed to kill Tailor and the FBI agents!  No matter how hard we investigate, he can’t be traced.  Kira doesn’t kill without a reason.”  He pauses to take a deep breath.  “You even said so yourself.”

“I see,” murmurs Matsuda.  “If he could kill under those circumstances, he shouldn’t have had a problem with leaving those FBI agents alone.”

“It’s already been fifty days,” says Aizawa plainly. “There’s no reason to be doing this. We should be thinking of ways to capture the real Kira. ”

Lawliet absently swirls a finger around the glass of ice cream sitting in front of him, pausing to lick a bit of whipped cream from his finger.  All the while, as he listens to the two behind him bickering, he stares intently at the visual of Light Yagami through the camera, his heart racing more quickly than he would ever betray. 

“I understand,” he says, half to himself.

Within a moment, refusing to explain any further, he speaks through the microphone to Soichiro.  “Mr. Yagami,” he says quickly.  “Are you willing to return to task force headquarters?  I want you to hear my theory on what’s happening. But first, I want to talk to you, as you are Light’s father.”

Soichiro pauses, and Lawliet is almost taken aback by how much grey hair is on his head.

_Anyone else would say it’s cruel to keep Ones from each other for so long.  Keeping Soichiro from his One, and keeping Light from his._

“Alright,” says Soichiro, albeit a bit reluctantly. “I’ll come.”

_So it’s decided._

 

* * *

 

When Soichiro arrives at headquarters, the sun is setting.  Lawliet pulls the blinds closed; he doesn’t want to see another day dying, so he occupies himself with the feel of the gossamer blue fabric in his fingers.

Life can do terrible things.

He makes Soichiro a cup of coffee, and stirs sugar into his own cup with small movements of his own pinky finger; his own fist is a bullet, he’s careful to not hurtle towards himself.

He whispers things into the emptiness of the space – it’s much quieter without Matsuda and Aizawa. 

_Kira might be hiding the power._

_We are running out of time._

_We have to do something._

 

* * *

 

The bargain he’s made with Soichiro is as dangerous as anything; the gunmetal of his own mind is a refuge, and a weapon. When Lawliet is in the bath, surrounded by the sickening sweet roses he requested, he fights the urge to punch against the water. 

Light Yagami’s arms are beautifully carved sculptures; Light Yagami’s mind is a poison, his eyes growing wide as he gazed up at the camera.

_We’re letting him go._

_We’re going to test his power, along with Misa Amane’s._

His hands are lightbulb filaments, drowning in the water as he presses his hands to the bottom of the tub.

_I spend too much time here._

_I have to be sure._

He litters the ground with thorns and kicks water over the side. 

_I have to be sure._

His pain is a ceiling hanging over his head, and he cannot bear to face Quillsh; he doesn’t wait for his insomnia to sleep, and he doesn’t put his head on a pillow for three nights straight.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s careful to not let his mind thaw when he watches, through the monitor, Soichiro driving with Light and Misa in the back seat.   He can tell that Soichiro is driving too fast, his hands careful guardrails; Lawliet is a stranger peering through the window.

Soichiro tells them that they are being driven to their execution, and Lawliet pretends to not hear the screams.

_You will never forgive me for this, after it’s all over._

Behind him, Matsuda in particular is restless. _You can’t bear to watch me do this, knowing my connection to Light._   Aizawa is unusually quiet, his hands tucked neatly in his pockets; Lawliet would be glad to lose himself in the sound of Matsuda’s pacing, but he feels himself breaking out into a cold sweat.

There are still blue roses at the bottom of the tub, in the other room.  It's like the scene of a murder, grotesque and taboo - their mangled stems arching against the base of the floor, stabbed by their own thorns.

“The killings never stopped,” they hear Soichiro say through the camera, as they watch him grit his teeth, grabbing the steering wheel with a will of steel, and Lawliet curls more tightly into a ball; it’s easy to see everything from their vantage point using the security camera.

“What?” they hear Light say, reeling backwards as though he’d been punched.  “That’s not what L told me.” His eyes are filled with unabashed hurt; like he’s been stabbed with betrayal.

_I’m sorry._

“He was trying to get a confession out of you,” says Soichiro flatly.  “L’s suggestion that the killings would stop if the two of you were executed was immediately accepted by all the top officials of the UN and the Japanese government.”

Lawliet watches as Light’s mouth drops into a perfect circle.  “L wouldn’t do that!” Light yelled, throwing his back against the spine of the car’s bench seat. “He couldn’t do that! Not to me!”

 _Your heart could be a crime scene._ Lawliet’s tongue is scalded by the coffee, burned beyond being able to taste even the sweetness of the sugar he drowns himself with; he is a wishlist of questions.  No matter how tightly he grips the mug, he’ll be unable to disappear.

“Kira will be erased,” Soichiro says, “and hidden from the public.”

“What are you talking about?” Light cries, raising his voice as he begins to panic.  “Wait, listen to me! I’m not Kira!”

“What kind of a father would do this?” Misa says frantically, leaning forward and shifting to be closer to Light, almost protectively.

“This is not my decision.  It’s L’s,” says Soichiro, his face entirely stone, his lips dry from the sickness of the words he mutters.  They race along the tunnel; above them, out of view, the sun is setting. “He’s solved countless difficult cases in the past, and he’s never been wrong even once.”

_Not in six hundred years._

“L wouldn’t do this!” Light shouts. “He wouldn’t do this to me! Not to me!  Listen to me!  Do you trust L more than you trust me?”

Lawliet clenches his fist.  He solves every case, he offers his teeth and groves of trees and miles of fences; he solves mysteries, called himself invisible and immortal until he was proven wrong.  His thoughts are racing as he sits in the chair, a soundtrack of trouble footsteps working as kindling in the background.

 _This is all insanity._ The blood of the sunset is settling on the hem of his shirt, creeping through the closed blinds as though it came for him alone. 

“It has to be done this way.  If the killings don’t stop,” Soichiro adds, “L, too, will be executed.”

Light Yagami leans forward, lips open in a wordless, soundless scream.  “L!” he stutters. “What the hell are you thinking? We can fix this together, w-we can, I swear!”

Warm brown hair dye leaves red residue, after it’s been washed from the hair.  Blue roses stay blue, even after they drown.  Lawliet recites facts in his head as he listens from the sidelines, trying to focus and ground himself with anything other than Light Yagami's fear echoing in his brain.

“This may seem like the only logical answer!” Light cries.  “But what if someone is targeting me, because they know I’m connected to you!”

Lawliet’s eyes flicker as he looks at the screen. Matsuda stops pacing, a muffled sound escaping from his throat.  It’s an ambiguous enough thing to say, but obvious to those who know.

“This is wrong!” Light says desperately, leaning forward to stare at Soichiro.  “This is wrong. The L I know would’ve used hard evidence in all of his cases.  Is he planning to end it like this?”  He pauses, as if something toxic is caught in his mouth.   “Doesn’t he know he may as well be dead after this is over? He’s going to feel like he’s dead! Isn’t that how that works?”

Lawliet freezes.

_Light, they don’t know.  Your father doesn’t know.  Stop talking._

“What the hell is he talking about?” Aizawa mutters, drawing a circle in the carpet with his shoe.  “He’s just getting desperate now.”

“R-Ryuzaki,” Matsuda says nervously, “maybe we should stop this.”

“No,” says Lawliet firmly.  “We have to see what happens.”  He bites his the skin of his thumb, the taste of his own regret gritty and bitter.

 _Blame him.  Love him still.  Blame him still, and love him still.  I’m sorry about wrists mangled from handcuffs, I’m sorry about battalions of sweets and days and days full of nothing_.

“Light, stop it,” they hear Soichiro say calmly through the camera, refusing to acknowledge any of the cryptic things hanging in the air between them.  “It’s useless. This was L’s decision; you can't try to bargain, the decision's been set.”

“He can’t do this,” Light says once more, albeit more feebly.  “Not…not to me.” He leans back, gritting his teeth like they’re chattering against his will.

“We’re almost there,” says Soichiro, and they can see the desperation with which he drives – like burnt rubber can be a solution to end the means, to shake bricks from walls, to make sure that Lawliet is wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

The car stops when the sky is purple and they’re hidden underneath a bridge, in the middle of – by all appearances – nothing more than a desert.  Lawliet casually digs a fork into his knuckles, but no one notices.

“W-where are we?” Light stutters, and Lawliet peers closely at him through the camera.  He’s incapable of looking away.

“Why did you bring us out to the middle of nowhere?” Misa asks nervously.  “Are you going to let us go?”  There’s a hint of vaguely familiar optimism left on her lips.

“Nobody will see us here,” Soichiro says heavily. “I decided to bring you here instead of the execution site.  Light…”

Lawliet’s skin crawls.

_It was my idea, and you will always hate me.  I should not care._

“Light, I’m going to kill you here, and then kill myself,” Soichiro says, turning to face them, his face set with stone.

Misa screams.  They’re fumbling over themselves, using the word crazy like a barrier, the weight of the nothingness around them, cold and hard; Light is filled with unmistakable fear written across his features.

“Kill your own child and then kill yourself?” Misa cries, blinking back tears from her eyes as she flips her hair from side to side, fighting furiously against her own wrists.  “If you want to die, then why don’t you just die by yourself?  If you do this then…y-you’re no better than Kira!”

“I am nothing like Kira,” Soichiro says calmly, a bit of an edge lacing his words.  “I have a responsibility as a parent and as the Detective Superintendent!”

“Dad, come on!  Misa’s right!” Light says, tears visibly filling his eyes.

Lawliet resists the urge to jump to his feet, to argue with his shadow, to fight off ghost hands at his throat. He presses the dull edge of the fork to his arm, until he lets it fall to the floor.  No one notices, as their eyes are trained carefully on the screen. He flinches in the chair, reciting poems in the quiet back of his mind, imagining pulling up tiles from floorboards long forgotten at Wammy’s House – wishing he was curled up on the familiar floor with familiar stars blinking back at him.

“If we die here,” Light says, his voice breaking like glass, “we’ll never find out the truth.  L needs me.”

_He needs you._

_You need him._

The walls are filled with bleach. Lawliet forgets his hands, forgets his feet, remembers only the ceiling above his head when he stares overhead. This is the feeling of run – run now – writhing and folding – use the pistons in your legs and the gears of your ankles and collect your forks and knives and run and keep running. Punch your fist into the gravel, understand him and understand his pain.

“I’m sorry, Light,” says Soichiro, as he pulls the gun from inside his jacket. 

He turns, holds it to Light’s head.

Lawliet feels Matsuda grip onto his shoulder. He wants to glance away from the screen, but he can’t bear to.

_They will always be made from splinters._

Misa’s scream punctures whatever he’s made of.

“Stop, Dad!  I’m not Kira!  L needs me! Stop!  This isn’t right!”

How sharp, Light’s words – they can rip through Lawliet’s skin, but it’s prerogative to forget to care.  After six hundred years, he has a bad memory. All that matters is the case. All that matters is the case. Love as hard as shrapnel; it kills him.

_You want to hold him, hard, until the sun comes back and daylight breaks over the sheets._

_He won’t forget this.  You won’t forget this._

“If we die here, we fall into Kira’s trap!” Light screams, struggling against the handcuffs.

“Amane,” Soichiro says, ignoring Light. “I am going to die here with my son. I have no reason to kill you. The police will find this car soon. You’ll be executed at the original site.”

Misa whispers the word ‘no’ until it’s made from saltwater tears, and there are chills on Lawliet’s skin.

“Light,” says Soichiro, as he prepares to shoot. “From one murderer to another, I’ll see you in hell.”

The city is on fire; Lawliet’s skin is on fire. He feels the panic as keenly as if he were there; a side-effect of having a One, he supposes, is weakness. Douse the rafters and the ceiling and the bathtub with kerosene and let it all be fine; we’ll solve this mystery one way or another.

_But Light, I don’t want you to die._

“Dad,” whispers Light, tears pouring down his cheeks. “L.”

Lawliet freezes.

_He said…_

Lawliet closes his eyes when he hears the gun fire.

It’s uncertain where he’ll be sleeping tonight. If he sleeps tonight.

Falling in love melts him; he’s not wrong to say, again, love is shrapnel.

 

* * *

 

The dust settles – metaphorically, literally.

Lawliet is almost too scared to open his eyes, but when he does, he sees Soichiro’s arm shaking.

Light is shrunk against the seat of the car, his spine curved like the arch of his neck, as lovely in fear as anything else.

Lawliet, for his part, shakes over the temporary fear that had overtaken him.

It’s business as usual.

 

* * *

 

 

“Were you watching, Ryuzaki?  I did exactly as you said, and as you can see, I’m still alive.”

Soichiro’s voice cuts through the monitor.

Lawliet’s heart turns to fire, burning through his chest.

So this is how it’s going to be.

Lawliet refuses to admit that he’s shaking; he hides it by gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles bleed white. Matsuda and Aizawa are peering over his shoulder, and now is no time for weakness.  He was the one who had requested the event. It was him, and only him: he hadn’t shown veritable weakness in six hundred years, and now was no time to begin.

“Yes.  It was a convincing performance,” he murmurs, deadpan.  Matsuda lets go of his shoulder, and he glances once at the marks from the fork on his knuckles.  “If Amane really were the Second Kira, the Kira who only needs to see a person’s face to kill them, there is no doubt she would’ve killed you before you had the chance to fire your weapon.”

He pauses for a brief moment, leaning forward to peer even more closely to the TV.  His eyes linger on Light, who is visibly distraught, his cheeks flushed pink and his posture still one of disbelief.  “Also, if Light was in fact Kira,” he adds quietly, “the Kira I know wouldn’t hesitate to kill even his own father to save himself.  With Light in particular I cannot rule out the possibility that he may have seen through our plan, but as we agreed, I will end their confinement immediately.”

He pauses.  “And as we agreed, Amane will remain under surveillance until Kira is apprehended,” he adds, even more softly.  “Although she insists the tapes we found were just occult videos, the physical evidence we have plus her confession suggest otherwise.”  There’s more than a bit of disgust in his own tone, and it surprises him to an extent.  Objective. Calm.

“Hey! No fair,” Misa protests from her place in the backseat of the car.  She’s leaning forward, struggling against the handcuffs holding her in place. “How dare you still suspect me!” Her voice is shrill and slices through the air, equal parts indignant and panicked.

“If I were you,” Soichiro says lowly, under his breath, turning to face her, “I wouldn’t complain.  You get to go back to your normal life.  If you’re innocent, the surveillance shouldn’t be a threat to you. Think of it as complementary police protection.”  The words are reassuring to a degree, but his voice masks something darker.

“Oh.  I get it,” Misa says, suddenly soft.  “Since I’m not the Second Kira, it’ll be kind of like having my own private bodyguards.”

Lawliet swallows, and digs his fingernails into his pants.  He’s oblivious to the pain, if there is any at all.  “As for your part in this agreement, Light…” he says abruptly.

He envisions the smell of things burnt to ash, enveloping him like a veil from the house of his parents razed to the ground, the crisp scent of paper at bookstores where he’d worked, seasons filled with strawberries and sunsets bleaching his hair red and gravel underneath his feet, all the things that made him human and set him apart as someone he’d thought would always be immortal.  This is nothing more than an investigation, and yet…

“You and I will be together, twenty-four-seven,” he says, pushing out the words before he can think better than to retract them. “And that’s how we’ll remain until we’ve brought Kira to justice.”

He isn’t sure what to expect, but he’s faintly surprised when he sees Light’s jaw drop a little.  Surprise.  They hang in the balance of the moment, like two sides of a mirror separated by a camera, and Lawliet, professional and objective and in all ways wholly unprepared for the burden of life shoved onto his shoulders, isn’t prepared – will never be prepared – for Light’s response.

“That’s fine by me,” Light says, a smile breaking out onto his face, his voice suddenly optimistic.  “We’ll catch Kira.  Together.”

Chills run down Lawliet’s spine.

Six hundred years, for this.

“Yes.  I look forward to working with you.”

When he falls asleep tonight, he’ll be falling asleep next to Light Yagami.

His One.

It’s a stolen future, breaking all the rules to solve even this puzzle.


	14. To Swell A Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s only one bed in the hotel; it’s middle-sized, large enough that they would have enough space but barely enough to move. Lawliet considers grabbing his laptop, but reminds himself that he needs to sleep. It's been days, blurring and racing into one anticlimactic bruise pooling into his mind, days without any rest. He breathes in slowly, inhales the feeling of silver in the hotel room as the moonlight and city brightness peers in through the windows. Light stands behind him, examining the closet full of white shirts and blue jeans with a peculiar intensity before climbing into the bed. The citylight laughter isn’t enough to reach them.

 

_In the room the women come and go,  
_ _Talking of Michelangelo._

 

 

The night is quiet, as though it’s recovering the hiccups of its breath after being faced with invisible gunshots ricocheting through the air, fatal in name alone.  Lawliet paces by the window when he waits for Soichiro to return to headquarters with Light and Misa; in his hands, he wraps the chain of the handcuffs. He twists it between his fingers, mulls it over, presses the chains against his fingerprints, nonchalantly allows the length of it to brush against his lower chest.  _You’re going to be with him, constantly.  It’s going to be impossible to ignore._

“Uh, Ryuzaki?” Matsuda chimes from across the room, and Lawliet shoots him a lazy glance.  “Should we maybe, uh, turn the lights on? Or something like that?”

 _What difference does it make?_ The hair dye should be able to conceal any traces of grey hair. “Go ahead,” Lawliet says dryly, gazing out the window as a warm golden yellow bleeds across the space only moments later. The brightness behind him makes it more difficult to see the city streets, but he’s undeterred, determined to focus on anything other than the immediacy of the situation.

 _You will be handcuffed to Light Yagami. You will be handcuffed to your One. You will be handcuffed to Kira._ If he relishes in the epithets, it always boils down to this – he will be handcuffed to the thing holding the most meaning for him. 

He’s wholly unsurprised when Matsuda appears beside him, only moments later; neither of them looks at each other, only stares out the window as though it holds the answer to the Kira case. Lawliet knows that he should be thinking of the case, considering the probability of Light being Kira, but he’s unable to concentrate.

“Ryuzaki,” Matsuda says under his breath, so Aizawa is unable to hear them from where he sits at the coffee table. “Don’t you think it’s a little, uh, suspicious, maybe, that you’re going to be handcuffed to Light?”

“Suspicious,” Lawliet says, letting the word roll off the tongue.  “Not at all. I’m not doing it because I want to, I’m doing it because we have to find out if Light is Kira.” He grips the handcuffs a little more tightly as Matsuda leans down to collect the part of the chain falling to the ground, and the burden of it is shared between the two of them.

“Do you think the Chief and Aizawa suspect anything yet?” Matsuda murmurs offhandedly, casting his eyes to the ground.

“Mmm.  I’d suspect not, Mr. Matsuda,” Lawliet says evenly, “otherwise they would’ve said something, I’m sure.”  His voice sounds oddly stilted, oddly childish, in his own ears, and he gladly stares at the top of the building across the street. 

“And what about Misa?”

He’s right.  She has to know they’re not Ones – she hasn’t started aging yet. It makes her devotion to him even more unusual – more suspicious.  Lawliet narrows his eyes.  “We’re going to continue keeping it a secret,” he says absently, not allowing himself to answer more fully.  “I am hoping, Mr. Matsuda, that we catch Kira before we need to address such difficult questions more fully, although Miss Amane’s fixation on Light Yagami is rather noteworthy.”

“O-okay,” Matsuda says softly. “Yeah, I agree. This method should help.”

They say nothing more; Aizawa watches the television as it blares in the background, speaking to itself or to the space, and Lawliet is glued to the window.  Losing himself in his thoughts, he stares at the bright lights and doesn’t care much for his own consciousness, wanting only to be lost in the kicking sting of knowing this night – all of his nights – are special now that they are finite.

 _Make it count._   All that matters now is solving the case.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure you’re alright with this, Ryuzaki?” Light says, as Lawliet clicks the handcuff shut.  The sound of it closing is cold and empty, standing in stark contrast with the way Light smiles at him, like he couldn’t fathom a more beautiful blessing.  _Don’t look so happy. I orchestrated a staged execution; don’t look at me like I’m saving you._ The members of the task force watch quietly, albeit a bit curiously, looking on to the scene unfolding before them – they are spectators, a fact more obvious than ever before with their sheer lack of proximity to Lawliet. He never lets anyone into his space – except for Light.

Light shifts and the handcuffs rustle, the chain turning on itself and clicking incessantly; it’s a sound they’ll have to adjust to, as they’ll be hearing it rather often.  Lawliet is gritting his teeth, his jaw a tight line to parallel the rigidity with which he stands.  Light flashes him a half-smile as he lifts his wrist and shakes the bond around his wrist for a humorous effect – as if to say, _look what I found!_

Lawliet mirrors him and holds up his hand to parallel Light’s; the cuff is around his right wrist, whereas the other segment wraps around Light’s left.  “I’m not doing this because I want to,” he says plainly, shooting Light a deliberate glance. _He doesn’t believe me._

In front of them, Misa shakes her head a little, clicking her teeth together in a disapproving gesture, all the while with the task force looking on.  “Is this what you meant when you said you’d be with him constantly?” she asks Lawliet, tilting her head to the side a little so her hair spills over her cheekbones like a messy painting.  She laughs a little. “Looking at you I never would’ve thought you’d be interested in him like that, Ryuzaki.”

Lawliet lets his hand drop to his side unceremoniously, and he shrugs into a more unassuming posture; almost without noticing, he’d started straightening his back.  “I told you,” he says again, voice filled with thinly veiled frustration, “I’m not doing this because I want to.” 

“But Light belongs to Misa,” she says, reaching for one of Light’s arms; she pulls at her skirt, clearly trying to draw attention to her legs, and Lawliet resists the urge to sigh deeply.

  
_She has no idea._

“I think he might be my One,” Misa adds softly, curling her fingers around Light’s hand.  “I haven’t started seeing any signs of aging yet, but I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect than Light, so it doesn’t matter.”  She smiles, and then casts a somewhat darker look at Lawliet. “So, if you’re with him twenty-four hours a day, then when will I have time to go on dates with him?”

_This is ridiculous._

Lawliet glances at Light, whose eyes are wide with something vaguely resembling something between fear and frustration.  “Dates will be with the three of us,” he says to Misa, deadpan and refusing to look away from Light, whose cheekbones flush red. 

“Huh?” Misa says, her voice high-pitched and filled with surprise as she steps backwards and crosses her arms, flipping her hair over her shoulder.  “Are you telling me we have to kiss in front of you?”

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” Lawliet returns evenly, watching the indignation dawn on her features. “But I will be watching, yes.”

“You really are a pervert,” she says, wrinkling her nose and glaring at him.  Lawliet hears Light make something of a strangled noise in his throat, and he resists the urge to smile.  _Our conversation must be entertaining for you._

“Light, please silence Misa.” Lawliet bites his lip, curling his toes into the carpet as he glances across the chain.

Light crosses his arms and presses his lips into a thin line, the warmth in his cheekbones vanished.  “Misa, that’s enough,” he says quickly.  “No one said anything about kissing or anything like that to begin with.  You were definitely the one who sent the tapes, so just be grateful you’re allowed as much freedom as this.”

“What are you talking about?” Misa says, instantly moving closer to Light and reaching out as if to brush her hands along his arms; her voice is abruptly filled with distress, her forehead creasing into uneven and troubled lines.  “I’m your girlfriend, aren’t I?  Don’t you trust your own soulmate?”  Her voice breaks on the last word.

Perhaps involuntarily, Light glances up and meets Lawliet’s eyes, suddenly filled with something unreadable. Lawliet, for his part, breathes in sharply, but he supposes it’s vastly undetected by the other members of the task force – they seem to be on the verge of snapping, sitting back on the couches in the corner and growing visibly more irritable.

_Don’t you trust your own soulmate?_

_If I did, we wouldn’t be here._

Time freezes, as amber eyes meet dark grey, and Lawliet remembers that tonight he’ll be falling asleep in company.  He presses his lips into a thin line and looks away, staring intently at the back of the couches, the feeling in his hands hitching with abrupt dizziness.

_Light Yagami, learn how to say no. Cram it into your mouth and love the bitterness of it._

“Girlfriend?” Light says, redirecting his attention to Misa as though nothing had passed in the cavernous purgatory of the moment. “It was you who said you fell in love with me at first sight, and now you’re always – f-forcing yourself on me and whatnot.”

Misa lifts her head, as though she’s about to burst into tears; a layer of rose pink bleeds into her features. “So then you took advantage of that fact when you kissed me?” she cries, and lunges forward to beat her hands onto his chest.

Light glances over at Lawliet, who shrugs into the pockets of his jeans.

_So, you kissed her?_

He should be ambivalent, but something pulls at him – almost like shock.  _You’re suspicious._ “About this whole soulmate thing,” he says dryly, waving any sort of irony or peculiarity aside and in turn relishing the way Light’s head jerks forward with unmistakable shock, “it happened in Aoyama on May 22 nd, didn’t it, Misa?”

“Yes,” Misa says in a quiet whimper, clutching her fists closer to herself and turning away from Light. 

“Why did you choose to go to Aoyama on that day?” Lawliet asks, running his fingers along the inside seams of his pockets. “And do you remember, by any chance, what you wore on that day?”

Misa rolls her eyes, not even sparing a smile. “It’s like I told you,” she says indignantly.  “I just happened to go there.  How many times have I told you?  I don’t really remember that day, or what I wore.”  She pauses, rubbing her own wrists almost as if from a nervous habit.  “Is it so wrong for me to be hanging out in Aoyama without a reason?”

She leans closer to Lawliet, glaring at him with unparalleled fervor, her eyes burning.

“Ah,” Lawliet says, leaning forward in turn. “So when you came back from Aoyama, you knew that you were in love with some guy, and his name was Light. You were sure he could be your One.” His voice sounds oddly sarcastic; he’s almost always monotonous, so the change is mildly interesting to him.

“Yes.”

“And yet you yourself have not the slightest clue how you came to know his name.”

Misa leans closer, so their noses are almost brushing; her eyes are pale brown, like Light’s, but they’re less clear. Lawliet is unfazed, and he glances over Misa’s shoulder to glance at Light, who appears to be holding his breath. “Yes,” Misa says fiercely. “Look at me!”

“How would you feel if Light were Kira, then?” Lawliet says evenly, pulling away in a wholly dismissive gesture.

“Huh?”  Misa visibly recoils, her mouth opening into a tiny ‘o’ of surprise. “How would I feel if Light were Kira?”

“That’s right.”

_Would you still want him to be your One?_

_Would you want to be me?_

Misa steps away, and within a moment she’s clutching Light’s arm, blushing and her eyes dancing, lips soft and pink with the apparent delight of it.  “That would be wonderful,” she says quietly, voice filled with awe as she presses her head against Light’s chest.  “I’ve always been grateful to Kira for punishing the man who murdered my parents, so if I found out Light were Kira, I’d love him even more.  Even if it seems impossible to love him more than I already do!” She beams, radiating from the warmth of her own words.

“We’re talking about Kira here,” Lawliet says dryly, raising an eyebrow.  “You would love him more if he were Kira?  You don’t feel afraid, at all?”

“That’s supposing if Light were Kira, right?” Misa muses, casting a loving glance at Lawliet from her vantage point, curled close to his shoulder.  “He’s not scary at all! I’m one of those people who accept Kira. I’d think of ways to help him.”

Lawliet narrows his eyes.

_She isn’t afraid of sharing this at all? Doesn’t this make her more of a suspect?_

“That’s quite generous of you,” he says flatly, “but I’m almost certain you’d get in his way rather than help him, even if you were his One.  Based on what you just told me, there’s no mistake that you are the Second Kira, but it’s so clear cut that I don’t even want to believe it.”

“Don’t believe it,” Misa fires back, “because I’m not Kira.”

“And so you’ll remain under surveillance,” Lawliet says, speaking over her as though she hadn't spit her words indignantly, and boredly glancing at the ceiling.  “When you go out, contact us using this room’s extension. Mr. Matsuda will accompany you as your manager, as Mr. Matsui.  Your agency’s been paid to keep this a secret, and I haven’t alerted the police, so don’t give yourself away.”  He glances sideways at Matsuda, who waves cheerily from his corner in the room.

“This guy’s going to be my manager?” Misa says, following Lawliet's gesture only to pout and purse her lips prettily.  “No way!” She glares at Lawliet, who shrugs, nonchalant.  _Not my problem._

Matsuda frowns and slowly lowers his hand. “What’s wrong with me, Misa-Misa?” he says quickly, stuttering over his words.  “Is it the tie?  Because I can get rid of it!  No problem! Anything you want!” He’s half-smiling, as though he’s somewhat mortified.

With no notice whatsoever, Aizawa suddenly jumps to his feet, pulling at his hair and slamming his feet to the floor with an unceremonious stomping motion.  “Enough already!” he shouts, his voice filling the room. “Cut it out with all this dating, kissing, and Misa-Misa talk!  And all this absurd talk of them being together!”  He wildly waves his hands at Light and Lawliet. 

Lawliet glances sideways at Light – who, like his mirror image, is doing the same.

_It is rather ridiculous, isn’t it?_

“This is the Kira investigation,” Aizawa hisses, slamming his fist on the table; his words are sharpened to perfect points, intended not only to disrupt but to raze.  “Take it seriously, goddammit! There's no room for all that crap here!” 

Matsuda shrinks away; Lawliet watches him rub the back of his neck.  “Sorry about that, Aizawa.”  He’s blushing violently red, as though he wishes for nothing more than to melt into the carpet. Soichiro is silent.

Aizawa abruptly leans back, and stares at his open hands as if a realization dawned on him.  “Wait,” he says quietly.  “No, I’m sorry. I know we’re serious, but I think I know what the problem is.”  He casts a seething glare at Misa, and waves his arm at the door.  “Misa Amane, go to your room.  Now.”

_Well, that simplifies things._

“Go,” insists Aizawa, waving more frantically. “I’m serious.  Go.”

Pouting, Misa casts a final glance at Light, before she moves towards the door.  “Let’s go on a date sometime soon,” she says brightly.  “Even if it is the three of us.”  Bunching her hands into fists, she crosses the room in a few quick strides, and surveys the room a final time with a look of disgust before abruptly leaving and slamming the door.

Lawliet pauses for a moment before he spins around to face Light, a question burning on his tongue.

“Well, Light,” he asks, sounding in equal parts sincere and sarcastic, “are you serious about her?  She’s your soulmate?”  He resists the urge to pull at his own hair, pull on his sleeves and curl into a ball, hinged jaws and porcelain hands and a mind raised without sunlight.

_I don’t care about the answer._

Light looks alarmed for a split second, before he settles into an easy smile.  “No, Ryuzaki,” he says calmly, almost warmly.  “As I said earlier, it’s one-sided.”

_This matters for the case alone._

“Then could you at least pretend to be serious, for the sake of the investigation?” Lawliet asks softly, his voice barely above a low whisper.  “I am certain that Amane is connected with the Second Kira, from the video incident. And also from the way she loves you….” He trails off, leaving the ending of his words open.  He hopes, in some part of his mind, that it stings.

Light’s eyes harden, filled with questions. “Are you asking me,” he asks, almost incredulous, “to become intimate with her so I can find out information about the Second Kira?  Really, Ryuzaki?” _Implicit: who would do that to their One?_

“Yes,” Lawliet says dryly. “I think you can do it.” _I don’t care.  You don’t love me and I don’t love you._   “And we could get clues to solve the case from Amane. This is why I released both of you, you know.”

“Ryuzaki,” Light says, his voice filled with disgust as he wrings his hands almost nervously.  “Even if it’s for the Kira case, I don’t… I don’t think I can do that. I could never use someone’s feelings like that.  You know I can’t love her.” He stares intensely at Lawliet, his eyes fractured and split with the arc of the overhead lights glowing on top of them, eyes full of sometimes apologies and smiling with the knowledge of the secret they alone hold. 

“Please forgive me, Ryuzaki,” he says quietly. “I need you to understand; exploiting another person’s feelings is unforgivable, and I won’t allow it. Not this.”

_There’s something wrong._

His personality has changed. 

He’s different.

_Is this really an act?_

Lawliet stares back.

_It sounds like Amane was being controlled by Kira._

_And Yagami, too._

_In that case…_

Light’s eyes widen, and soften with a moment. “What’s wrong, Ryuzaki?” he asks, his tone less harsh.  He outstretches his hands, palms open and facing the ceiling.

“N…nothing,” Lawliet says, stumbling over the beginning of the word.  “You’re right.”

 _You want Kira to come back._ He may as well refrain from hiding it from himself.

Light smiles at him, and his heart stops beating for a moment.

 _Don’t think of it._ “Although it would be helpful,” Lawliet adds carefully, grabbing his thumb absently and digging a nail into his fingertip to distract himself from being caught off guard, “if you could ensure that Misa doesn’t leak information about the investigation.”

“Alright,” Light says quietly, visibly relaxing.

If nothing else, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to get intimate with her – but whether for personal values he veritably holds, values he aspires to hold, or for the respect that he’s Lawliet’s One is uncertain.

 

* * *

 

 

They continue to work for a while longer, detailing plans for an entire building that Lawliet requested long ago Quillsh arrange to be constructed. Soichiro, Matsuda, and Aizawa leave headquarters in shifts when it’s late in the evening and the streets are empty; only the buildings are left to lend spines of sidewalks to their feet, and Lawliet and Light are left in the empty room bathed with bright walls and shabby couches.

“Well then,” Light says quietly, after the door is shut and abruptly, the entirety of the room seems to shift under their feet. “We certainly accomplished a lot tonight, didn’t we?”

“Mmm.  Yes. I suppose so,” Lawliet says, staring at the handcuff wrapped around his wrist rather than looking directly at Light.

_He thought he was going to die earlier this evening. How is he so calm?_

The silence is almost a separate physical presence in the room; Light awkwardly wraps a hand around the chain and pulls on it gently, as if just to become familiar with sensation of touching it. “So, are we going to…” he mutters quietly, “talk about it?”  He leaves the question hanging, as though the nerve of speaking it aloud is too much for him to bear.

 _This is completely different from the Light Yagami of before._   Lawliet remembers distinctly the seductive smiles, the quick touches, the sound of a siren outside the window while Light sharpened his flattery like knives and left it, kissed it, like the agonizing throb of some sort of vertiginous heartbreak, to Lawliet’s hips like a weapon.  The truth was a matter of seduction and nothing more; he’s loathe to admit it worked in any capacity.

 _Don’t give him what he wants.  Don't give him the satisfaction_.  “Ah.  Yes.  The aging,” Lawliet says brusquely, abruptly colder.  _Call it what it is._   “It’s no matter. We’ll continue as planned. Although I must ask…” He trails off. “You’ll recall we brought you hair dye during your confinement.  If Misa Amane begins to show signs of aging, we may stop concealing your side effects.”

Light’s mouth opens in a careful exclamation, and within a moment he’s standing right in front of Lawliet, his hands on his shoulders, eyes wide and implicitly angry.  “R-Ryuzaki!” he says, voice filled with something like pain. “I told you I can’t – I won’t do that! I can’t!”

“There’s only a one percent chance she’s going to begin aging anytime soon, anyway, without obviously recognizing that her soulmate is someone else,” Lawliet says smoothly, cupping one of Light’s hands in his own and gently lowering it from his shirt.  “But we need you to gather information from her about the Second Kira. You’ll need to be intimate with her, one way or another.”

“I told you, I won’t,” Light says carefully, stepping back and pulling on his shirt to straighten it, seemingly embarrassed to have lost control.  “What kind of a masochist wants his One to do that, anyway? It’s almost like…like you’re using me as bait.”

Lawliet narrows his eyes.  “Make no mistake,” he says, entirely deadpan. “The case is the priority.” He pauses, glancing out the window at the skyline, somehow wishing to be wrapped in the darkness of it. “We’ll proceed as we would otherwise.” He refuses to say the word One, to give into any of it; Light Yagami is Kira, and nothing else. Light Yagami is Kira, and nothing else, even if he is completely different from how Light Yagami had been, in this moment.

“It’s because you suspect me of being Kira,” Light says, seemingly half to himself. 

“Again, it’s no matter,” Lawliet repeats, and raises an eyebrow delicately.  “Amane said you had already kissed her, so you must be at least slightly experienced with manipulation, if it’s true you’re not serious about her.”

Light flinches as though he’d been hit, and for a moment Lawliet regrets the harshness of the words pouring from him all at once; but it’s only for a moment, and within the next second, he remembers where he is and who he is. Who they both are.

“Look, Ryuzaki,” Light says a bit sharply, straightening his shoulders.  “We shouldn’t argue. That’d just be what Kira wants. We have to work together, and even if you can’t stand me, I can help you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Lawliet returns. “Your deductive skills are rather incredible, I must admit.”  _Just as Kira’s would be, to have made it so far._

Light's personality, or at least the portrayal of it, is completely different; he's suddenly mortified by the idea of using someone, like he's clinging to the precise moral ideals of the situation like life preservers.

_Maybe he isn’t Kira, at least now.  Or he is - and he's using the idea of moral solidarity as a guise._

Light frowns at him, and turns his eyes to the floor, as though he’s abruptly ashamed.  “Would you mind if I took a bath?” he asks suddenly. “I’d like to sleep soon.”

Lawliet is caught off guard, distracted by the change in subject. 

_You didn’t deny kissing her.  Is it a blight, to your pristine image?_

“You may take a bath,” he says, his voice eerily monotonous as he casts a quick glance at the handcuffs.  _I’ll have to take them off._ “Wait a moment.”

It’s as though he’s outside of his own body, as Lawliet starts suddenly pacing towards the bathroom, dragging Light with him in tow.  He’s made of nervous hands, suddenly unfolding and misgiving in all ways, breath hitched in his throat.  He hears Light protest against the quick motion, finding his steps are reluctant to be caught in the mess, but his mind is racing. 

He slowly opens the door, and it’s as he suspected – petals of blue roses, littering the bottom of the tub, entirely sans water. It’s otherwise pristine, but the roses…. _I’d forgotten._

“Ryuzaki, what’re those?” Light murmurs carefully from behind him, gently placing a hand at the small of Lawliet’s back.  “What’d you…”

“It’s no matter,” Lawliet says flatly, again. Without thinking, he pulls away from Light’s touch and climbs into the tub.  He begins plucking petals out, laying them on the floor; they’re soft between his fingers, and he’s careful to not think too closely about the peculiar way in which his dreams merged with reality.  Light Yagami is here.

_None of this changes anything._

He barely notices when he cuts his fingers on thorns.

“Why are all those roses in there?” Light asks, slightly apprehensively, still standing in the doorway like he’s prepared to run at any given moment.  “Ryuzaki, stop, you’re going to bleed.”  He rushes by the side and grabs one of Lawliet’s hands, holding it in front of his face, his breath rushing over the fingers.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Get a towel or something for these.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lawliet says, shivering slightly and tugging his hand away to grab fistfuls of petals, throwing them unceremoniously over the side.  “It has to be cleaned for you to take a bath.”

“Fine,” Light says, leaning over the side and mirroring Lawliet’s movements.  Within minutes, the petals are gone, but Lawliet’s thoughts are distracted.

_Did you think he wasn’t going to actually stay here?_

“Now, this,” Light says, shaking his wrist to show the handcuffs as though Lawliet were unfamiliar with the concept. “Take them off so I can get rid of my shirt.”  He smiles a little, albeit sadly.

Lawliet blinks at him, wanting to make some sort of witty retort to the demand, but his mind is at a loss for words. He removes the key from his pocket slowly, watching Light and all the while moving to press his back against the door.

“I’m not going to run,” Light says quickly, addressing the silent question.  “It may surprise you, but I want to be here.  I want to catch Kira.”

_I want to be here with you._

_I want to catch Kira._

“Here.”  Lawliet pulls the chain so that Light stumbles closer to him.   The floor underneath their feet is glassy and smooth, pale marble shining with the reflections of their shadows.

_Is this what it means to have love?_

The handcuffs would be the only measure for the extent of their trust.

There would be none.  

Lawliet is filled with immediate apprehension the moment he unlocks Light’s handcuffed wrist; the suspicion lingering in his stomach is increased tenfold, his skin immediately and abruptly sensitive to the phenomenon of touch.  He watches, consciousness split between the roses littering the ground and the way Light pulls his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the ground in an unceremonious pile.  Light turns and faces him instantly, a small smile on his lips.

His heartbeat is in his ears, an uncomfortable soundtrack, as Light gently lays his hand on Lawliet’s shoulder, waiting for him to reattach the cuff.  The touch burns him, seeps through his shirt, and he reminds himself to breathe. Carefully.  Apprehensively.  _Even though you make no move to run, Light Yagami, this is all part of a plan, I’m sure._

“Are you going to take a bath, too?” Light asks quietly, his voice barely audible.

“Later,” Lawliet says dismissively, surprised to hear that his voice works.  “Although, I suppose…”

He understands Light’s implication, and he slowly unlocks the handcuffs on his own wrist.  He lifts his hand – now without the weight on his wrist, shaking only slightly – to grab onto Light’s, while his other hand pulls at his own shirt.

_May as well limit the amount of times we go through this._

_We’ll need a better system._

_Don’t run.  Don’t go._

He lets go of Light’s hand to pull the shirt all the way off, and lets it fall to the floor without another thought. Dizzyingly, he grabs for Light’s hand again, both shocked and unsurprised to find that it’s not far from his own.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Light whispers, half to himself, letting Lawliet quickly refasten the handcuffs without any struggle. “We don’t really need them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lawliet says coolly. “You’re only here because we suspect you of being the first Kira.  It’s a necessary measure.”

They’re both silent. Lawliet is abruptly keenly aware of the way that Light looks at him, with his eyes wide.  _He sees you._ He feels like a cork floating in a glass of wine; that is to say, a bad idea, quiet and unintended.

Then, softly:

“Are you going to stay?”

Light bites his lip after asking, as if to rebuke himself.

_That is to say, a bad idea._

He changes his mind in an instant.

“I have to, Light-kun,” Lawliet says, too quickly, too monotonously, as he remembers.  “There are no cameras here.”

_You used the honorific.  He is not just Light, and this is what you tied yourself to him for._

Refusing to acknowledge the presence of nerves, he moves closer to the tub, and leaves the water on to refill it from having been emptied the night earlier.

 

* * *

 

 

_Nothing we say to each other is honest, but Light…believes in his own honesty._

_What is the point of a love riddled with questions?_

_To say or to mean – I love you – when you, Kira, are trying to kill me is absurd.  It’s nothing of love, and I will never mean it._

_And so I will stay._

_I can’t let you go, even for a moment._

 

* * *

 

 

His thoughts have become louder, since finding Light. He’s unsure what it means, but it’s like he stopped thinking about thinking, and started the motions instead.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet quickly steps out of the rest of his clothes as Light does the same; he stares at the shadows cast on the ground by their movements, as the floor is shimmering, dizzyingly sick and pale to reflect the outlines of their hands like a poor drawing.  Like someone had filled them in halfway and left them formed only as shadows.

It’s Lawliet who hums in his throat slightly, kicks the clothes into the corner, and pulls Light to the shower. The small, disposable bars of soap provided by the hotel’s service are stacked in the corner, each one melting into the edge of the one underneath it.  Lawliet runs a finger down the length of his jaw, moving his thumb to his lips, cautiously pensive. 

_Don’t overthink._

For him, nudity is a thing of indifference, but it’s the space between them that sets him on edge.  Maybe it’s the fact that he still, somehow, considers himself one with the bones of the world, whereas Light is still opening his eyes – the idea of an imbalance, the idea that there are secrets between them, makes his hands shake ever so slightly when he moves to turn the water on.

But the idea that Light Yagami – his primary suspect, someone he could never trust – is his One, seems to be something of a cosmic joke that strips them both of whatever liberties might exist outside of this room.  He thinks for a moment about the vulnerability of standing in the shower, knowing in more ways than one they’re tied to each other, and he can’t shake off the feeling of being unsettled.

_It’s necessary to do this.  Make sure he isn’t Kira._

This is what he tells himself as he watches Light carefully reach for soap, and begin to toss it over with in fingers with an intense, almost concentrating expression.  Lawliet does the same, carefully running it over the length of his arms and all the while focusing on the steady, almost rhythmic beat of the water from the shower falling onto him.

_For the case._

He hears whispers in his ears in the way he's feet lightly pad on the ground, his skin sticking slightly to the tile.  Earlier in the day, Soichiro had frowned, muttered something to Aizawa when he thought no one could hear him –

_Does Light look…different to you, somehow?_

Such a phrase could, naturally, be attributed to the effects of his imprisonment – to the change that Lawliet had seen, visibly, in Light’s demeanor on camera after about a week of imprisonment – to the aging.  Either way, Lawliet had pressed his lips into a thin line when he heard Aizawa mutter something in response about being unsure, of just wanting to go home, of just wanting to solve the case.

_What happens when they all begin to notice?_

The situation, he knows, could be described as being no less than the trickiest encounter of six hundred years.  He has to play his cards correctly, and not fall for Light’s tricks. 

Lawliet wants to shake the tiles from the walls, to feel the water thrown against them to lap onto his ankles, wants to stop hearing blue roses call his name in nightmares, to stop the bathtub from yawning too wide to swallow him whole, to stop letting the knowledge that Light is his One cut him with a dull blade underneath his arms so he can no longer sleep. It is what it is.

Light says nothing, but he stares at the soap in his hands like it’s afraid it’ll melt right in front of him – like he’ll lose the touch or the memory of it.  Lawliet glances at him, raises an eyebrow, and carefully finishes rinsing off.

 _This will be a daily ritual._   The chain weighing him down clicks enthusiastically against itself, ringing like some sort of twisted and waterlogged bells in the tight space. Lawliet’s arm brushes against Light as he turns, but he’s careful to press further against the wall, building the distance between them. 

“I’m finished, whenever you’re ready, Light-kun,” Lawliet says thinly, focusing his attention on the curtain he had absentmindedly pulled behind them.  The space in the shower was fixedly small, just a petite box seemingly not intended for more than one individual at a time – _why have we both gone in at once?_ – and somehow darker than the rest of the more open space.  He didn’t remember closing the curtain behind them.

“Y-yes,” Light stutters abruptly, leaving the bar of soap on the small shelf next to Lawliet’s.  His lips twitch, as though he’d meant to smile but couldn’t bring himself to, and casts Lawliet a quick glance.  “We can go.”

Lawliet moves the curtain and crosses the distance between the bathtub and the showering area in a few quick strides. Light stumbles behind him, making a soft noise of surprise, still unaccustomed to the principle of movement and steps conjoined by the chain of the handcuffs.  The water is nearly filled to the top – sans roses.

Lawliet slides to one end of the space with quick movements, careful to not let any water spill over the side; it’s a relatively small tub, but Light has no objections to climbing in as well. Lawliet notices, abruptly grabbing his wrist, that his pulse is quicker than usual.  His hands are flushed with more warmth, and he focuses on noticing that his nails are bitten to unusually low lengths.

“This feels nice,” Light says quietly, watching his own hand move through the water, scooping a bit of it to pool in his palm and watching as it slides through his fingers.  “It’s very warm.”

“Yes.”

 _Is this what we’re going to do? Sit here and have small talk every night?_   Lawliet supposes he might prefer silence; it feels less like drowning.

“You never did say what the roses were for,” Light says, carefully tucking his hand underneath the shimmering surface of the water again, sitting calmly with an unusual stillness as he watches Lawliet.

Lawliet glances at him, and then stares at the floor, littered with petals.  “There was simply no reason,” he says.  “There’s nothing to be learned about L from that story.”

“I didn’t ask on behalf of Kira,” Light says quickly, his cheekbones suddenly bright pink.  “I was just wondering.  I suppose they looked beautiful.” 

“I suppose.”

 _This isn’t Light, it’s Kira._   Lawliet’s body is on edge, the muscles in his back tensing. _We didn’t have to take a bath. We didn’t have to do this. He asked._   He stares as Light's eyes run over him, scanning the sharp curve of his collarbone and shoulders with something of an artist's eye, as Lawliet leans against the back of the tub and twists his hands into a knot.

_To refuse would’ve been to acknowledge that I could let this overwhelm me._

“Be honest,” Light says after a moment, gazing into the water and refusing to make eye contact with Lawliet, “how much do you suspect me?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind you were the first Kira,” Lawliet says within a moment. 

_I think you are using the fact you’re my One to manipulate me into getting closer to you._

_I’ll wait for you to show your hand, just as you wait for me to show you mine._

“I’m not Kira,” Light says faintly, clenching his fist under the water.  “I’ll prove it to you. You’re my One. You have to believe me.”

Lawliet simply stares at him, waiting.

“We’ll catch Kira together,” Light adds after a moment. “We will.  This will all…mean something.”

_Do you like proposing the idea of us being Ones because it means we should be honest with each other, on principle? Or because it actually means something to you?_

“If you’re right,” Lawliet says carefully, “we’ll see in time.”

“Yes,” Light says, smiling for the most fleeting of moments at the word time, and he reaches to grab Lawliet’s hand from underneath the surface of the water.  He lifts it, staring at their fingers intertwined, and for a moment Lawliet forgets to breathe; his ears are ringing as though they’d been filled with water.

_What are you doing, Light Yagami?_

“Maybe we’ll catch Kira tomorrow,” Light says, his voice barely above a whisper.  He quickly lifts their hands and presses his lips to the back of Lawliet's, smiling almost apologetically as he unlatches himself from their shared grip.  His eyes are wide with something unreadable.

A ghostly wisp of the touch still lingers on Lawliet’s skin, and he fights to not let his cheeks burn as he pulls his hand back and tucks it closely to his chest.  

_You turn me to dust._

 

* * *

 

 

Soon afterwards, they climb out of the tub, the chain breaking the silence between them.  Lawliet refuses to glance over as Light stands, water pooling by his feet on the ground; there’s a strange burning in the bottom of his stomach, like someone had cut him open and sewed a rock into the pit of his abdomen; his movements are careful, cautious as he seeks to avoid cutting himself open from the inside out.  His own fingers may as well be knives; his skin is suddenly some kind of firework of bruises and want.

In six hundred years, he’d never once wanted anyone – never wanted to touch someone, never wanted to feel someone’s lips at his collarbone.  The place to start was not with Light Yagami.

Lawliet grabs towels from a small shelf in the corner of the bathroom, tossing one to Light without looking backwards.

_Never look back._

 

* * *

 

 

Light doesn’t have any of his clothes at the hotel; no one had thought to bring any over.  He borrows one of Lawliet’s plain white shirts to sleep in, shrugs into it and laughs silently as the sleeves reach to his wrists. Lawliet watches and wonders if he’s looking at a shadow of himself; if he squints, Light almost resembles Lawliet's own reflection.

There’s only one bed in the hotel; it’s middle-sized, large enough that they would have enough space but barely enough to move. Lawliet considers grabbing his laptop, but reminds himself that he needs to sleep.  It's been days, blurring and racing into one anticlimactic bruise pooling into his mind, days without any rest.  He breathes in slowly, inhales the feeling of silver in the hotel room as the moonlight and city brightness peers in through the windows. Light stands behind him, examining the closet full of white shirts and blue jeans with a peculiar intensity before climbing into the bed.  The citylight laughter isn’t enough to reach them.

Lawliet follows, facing the opposite way of Light so their backs are together.

_But I’ve never been so awake._

“Goodnight, Ryuzaki,” Light says, his voice soft and filled with something vaguely emotional.

_It’s an act.  He’s angry.  He’s angry and he channels his anger by trying to get closer._

“Mmm.  Goodnight,” Lawliet says flatly.  He pulls at his shirtsleeve, running his finger along the seam; his skin is burning with unfamiliarity, intensity, like every motion is another shiver along his spine. 

When he feels Light press his back against his, it’s almost enough to make him jump.

_Touch me._

Lawliet doesn’t move; doesn’t bring himself to breathe, doesn’t acknowledge the abrupt warmth racing just underneath his skin, like an ache.  He’s distantly tempted to turn over, to run his hands over the curve of Light’s shadow in the dark, pull Light on top of him – test his reaction, take it as a challenge, as a game, until they’re under each other’s skin.

Of course, such thoughts exist only on the principle that he wants to solve the mystery.  He’d never submit to such weakness.

So he stays, frozen, barely breathing, remembering the watch on Light Yagami’s wrist, digging his fingernails into his own fist until eventually, reluctantly, he falls asleep dreamlessly.

_Maybe we’ll catch Kira tomorrow._


	15. Lingering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you,” says the monster plainly, eyes filled with unabashed hunger, as though – if he could feast on just this one last butterfly – he’d be able to live forever.

 

_And indeed there will be time  
_ _To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”  
_ _Time to turn back and descend the stair,  
_ _With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —  
_ _(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)_

 

 

For a while, L Lawliet is dreamless, until he catches himself supposing that he is awake. Without being conscious of it, he twitches and presses his back closer to Light’s; his hands grasp in onto themselves, the muscles in his legs tighten. He presses his lips tighter together, teeth biting lightly on the inside skin of his cheek.

 

* * *

 

From the first moment, he knows he’s caught in a dream, but he does nothing to wake himself. His lifts the lids of his eyes, shadowed veils peeling back to show him the world – like curtains, like surprises. The room is bathed in pure, golden sunlight; carefully, Lawliet stirs and flips onto his back, looking around the room with a certain degree of caution, in spite of the overwhelming sensation that he’s safe here.

He glances over, and Light is unmistakably still sleeping, his lips parted slightly. _Perhaps he’s only honest in sleep_. The warmth of the room is suitable, contouring his features until he looks much younger – much more innocent. He’s facing Lawliet, his fingers reaching out onto the bedsheets and failing to grasp anything. Lawliet blinks slowly and pushes himself until he’s sitting with his spine straighter; he sees that there are butterflies resting on Light’s toes, where they appear from underneath the covers wrapped around his body.

_Butterflies? Here?_

His eyes flick to the window, and he sees it’s open, but the city seems to be gone – he can only see the unobstructed sky. _Where are we?_

Lawliet pushes the blankets off his waist, glancing quickly at Light; in spite of the movement, the butterflies resting at the foot of the bed refuse to move. Another one flies in through the window and lands in Light’s hair, shimmering with its wings like small galaxies. Light, apparently subconsciously, pushes the sheets back from his neck, exposing his collarbones and their arch, dipping and falling with his skin – Lawliet is suddenly tempted by the idea of leaning over and leaving small bites, quick and delicate against the curve of his neck, but he bites his own lip until the urge is gone.

_Don’t be absurd. You are dreaming._

He swings his feet onto the ground, finding that he’s wearing the traditional white shirt and blue jeans he had fallen asleep in. Light doesn’t stir when Lawliet pushes off from the bed, only stretches out slightly as if to fill the loss that had been incurred by the shift in positions. Lawliet casts a final glance backwards, eyes caught by the brightness of the butterflies standing sharply against the plain, thoroughly brown hue of Light’s hair, before padding delicately against the floor to the door.

_There’s no mistaking it. This is the same as the hotel room. So when I open this door –_

Lawliet hesitates only slightly, but he grabs the knob and pulls the door open. He fights back a quick and quiet intake of sharpness, of breath keen against the air – for, in front of him is not the rest of the hotel room, but rather an open field entirely filled with flowers, undulating and waving like an entire shore crashing and threatening to bring him under.

They’re so bright. They stain his vision, so that he almost feels dizzy leaning against the arch of the door, abruptly noticing that the faint shimmer of the field isn’t attributable solely to the flowers – towards the place where the flowers stand starkly against the bleached blue of the sky are hundreds of butterflies.

Lawliet instinctively steps backwards, pushing his hands into his pockets, his hair dipping across his forehead.

_Maybe it’s time to wake up._

Just before he’s about to shut the door, to call for Light – _I’m not wearing the handcuffs, am I?_ – something catches his eye. It’s directly left of his vision, a distinctly human shape crouched in the colorful grass, hands raised and rainbows pouring from the palms.

_What is that?_

Lawliet finds himself instinctively moving towards the shape, crossing over the threshold, the hotel room and the bed and the shadows across Light’s cheekbones cast by his eyelashes all but entirely forgotten. He can barely hear his own feet, and he watches with a sort of removed interest as he nearly crushes butterflies with his steps.

He sees the figure huddled carelessly against the colors bleeding onto him – he’s draped in dark fabric, part of the sleeve sloping off his shoulder to reveal a strip of pale skin. Lawliet’s heart leaps to his throat as he watches the figure’s outstretched palms, butterflies landing on the fingers, wings fluttering and gossamer with the light from the sun above their heads.

The figure, in one quick motion, cups the hand full of butterflies to his lips – leaving one hand outstretched, filled with wings bleeding onto the skin – eating the other palm full. He turns around, and Lawliet is, somehow, simultaneously shocked and entirely unsurprised to see that this figure – _this shadow, this monster_ – looks shockingly like Light Yagami.

The corners of his lips are dyed with acquiescent colors, the shimmer creating a grotesque smile – his mouth is wings, filled with the dying and haze of the butterflies flocking to his hands and to his shoulders. His eyes are different – they’re crimson red, and his hair, too, is deep red, like he’d been touched by something of a forbidden fruit, tempting him into a shift of character.

Lawliet is overtaken by a strong pulse in his hands – something of a pull in his stomach, a pang of the shadow of lust, the very characterization and embodiment of want – so much so that he’s incapable of doing anything other than curling his hands into fists, blinking slowly.

“Light Yagami, I should arrest you for being Kira,” he hears himself saying coolly, voice unshaken with the rush of blood close to his skin, the pulse feverish at the curve of his waist.

The monster in front of him merely stares back, unmoving, butterflies landing at his hair and crouching at his ears, kissing the dip of his shoulders, trusting and unsuspecting in their funnels to reach him, just to touch him once. Lawliet stares back, feeling himself falling to his knees as though someone had ducked underneath him and pulled him into their arms.

_What is this?_

_I need to wake up._

“You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created,” Lawliet says quietly, hearing the passage – from a bible, he recalls with an uncomfortable pang, “til unrighteousness was found within you.”

The monster – Light Yagami, Kira – smiles, the wings suddenly and abruptly melted into his skin, one and the same. “Were you ever actually told to never eat of any tree in the garden?” he asks slyly. “You’ll surely not die. When you eat it, your eyes will be opened, and you’ll understand. You’ll understand good and evil.” His voice is quiet, lilting, poised, and the butterflies swarm with quicker and more violent movements, as though they were building to reach some sort of climactic dance.

“Eat it, L,” he continues, the faintest hit of a sneer compelling the rich seduction of his voice. “Eat it and you’ll understand. You’ll start aging with me.” He waves one of his hands, the butterflies spilling into the air like disjointed fingers.

_Now is the judgment of this world; now will the ruler of this world be cast out._

Lawliet shrugs a little, hands still tucked firmly into his pockets, glancing around mildly at the scenery.

_It’s time to wake up._

“Mmm. I really suppose I should go,” he says indifferently, ignoring the way his body whispers to him to move forward, to step closer towards the temptation of the monster – the siren in the sea of butterflies – the forbidden fruit. He turns away when he sees the darkness, the lustrous amber shade, dancing as though there were a secret, facing the same direction as he came, only to notice that the door was gone.

_Light Yagami is Kira._

“It’s already too late,” the monster says knowingly, albeit congenially, as though it were a topic of mildly interesting conversation passing right underneath his nose.

 _What would happen if I turned around right now?_ Lawliet closes his eyes. _Time to wake up._

Abruptly, before he finishes the thought, before he can even take a moment to breathe, he feels a quick touch at the small of his back. He inhales sharply, refusing to spin around, knowing who he’ll see standing there.

“You’re right,” says the dream, says the lurid and careless one herding the butterflies, says the light, says the field, say the hands he feels curling around his waist. “I am Kira. Do you still want to leave?”

_No._

Lawliet turns slightly, resting his own chin on his shoulder. Slowly, he turns around until he’s facing the monster – facing Light – facing Kira, bright eyes staring back into his, unblinking, the hues of the wings stuck to the skin of his jaw and lips.

_I poisoned myself with you._

_I should run._

“Who wouldn’t be frightened by seeing a monster like that?” Lawliet says coolly, staring back – unwavering – as he feels fingers brush against the length of his jaw. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wants to melt into the feeling, close his eyes and rest against the palm, his lips replacing the butterflies that shed into the field.

“Come with me,” Light says, his eyes soft and pleading, gentle in the kind of way that hides a fire, and Lawliet stares back, his stomach burning and begging for him to move, if only to fall back onto the field, if only to shake away the stone filling his veins.

_Light Yagami is Kira._

_I want you to be Kira._

_I want -_  

_Kira –_

_Wanted it to be you –_  

_I want you._

Lawliet is wholly unsurprised when he feels Light’s hands cupping his own, fingers grasped tightly in the space left unfilled.

  _Good sense went out the window when I left through the door._

_Where did that Light Yagami go?_

“I love you,” says the monster plainly, eyes filled with unabashed hunger, as though – if he could feast on just this one last butterfly – he’d be able to live forever.

_My monster._

“Kira,” says Lawliet thinly, narrowing his eyes against the lust, fighting stronger in his veins.

_Time to go._

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes and it’s dark, he’s grateful. The brightness of the meadow drips away like the drizzle of raindrops slicking over a window, tapping and desperate but unable to reach him. He doesn’t wake with a start, but it’s a soft revelation instead, as he feels Light’s back pressed tightly against his in the bed.

“Kira,” he whispers, the word sounding strange in his mouth when it’s just the word – spoken with a careful English accent, testing it.

It hits Lawliet, suddenly, abruptly, that since this case began, everything else faded to periphery – everything other than Light Yagami; even his brain in soft moments whispers as much to him, through dreams and through the very idea of quick touches. It was no surprise he’d done all the things he was capable of – the confinement, the torture, the watery grave for the roses, the handcuffs curled around his wrist. The chains were nothing more than the physical embodiment of what had already been done, had been damned long ago.

_It was always going to be him._

Lawliet had the world at his disposal – had it turn to him to solve the puzzles previously lost, mistakenly considered him an agent of the law rather than someone seeking out riddles. The mystery of his own longevity was one he never considered, but now it’s immediate, and it’s no longer a mystery – it’s curled at his back, breath soft against the pillow, a sleeping monster resting somewhere in their heads.

_There are many kinds of monsters in the world._

In reality, they were all ghosts, all demons – bringing each other love, but only with the promise of death. The answer to solving the world was simple: it was impossible.

Long ago he had wondered about another mystery – lessons on how to love a prophet, if anyone would or if anyone could. That answer was even simpler. When you live in the darkness, when you puzzles are more important than the rules by which we suggest they could be solved: simply don’t.

_Are the rules changing?_

Lawliet blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with sleepy motions of his fingertips – glances at the clock on the bedside table, where it whispers 4:32am.

_Nothing is going to cloud my judgment._

 Shivers run along his spine – secretly.

_I am going to destroy him either way, whether I'd like to or not. And if I've underestimated him... Or he proves me wrong...._

His ribs are tight and restrictive and they are lies, knives.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, there’s a soft cry against the sheets. He fights the urge to jump, instead turning onto his back slowly, leaning over to face the source of the sound. There’s no doubt it came from Light.

Light abruptly pushes backwards against the sheets, huddling closer to Lawliet and curling into a tighter ball. Lawliet straightens, eyes wide open, bringing a thumb to his lips.

_What if he admits to being Kira?_

Lawliet leans over, peering to see Light’s expression. His forehead is creased with apparent distress, his lips parted slightly as though he were cut off in the middle of saying something. Lawliet watches his hand twitch, grabbing a fistful of the smooth indifference of the sheets, wrinkled and clutched tightly with a death grip.

He had always slept soundly on the cameras.

Lawliet frowns as he watches Light stir, and softly murmur something that sounded like the tail-end of a name, like a plea spoken to someone who wasn’t keen on carefully listening, like they had already made up their mind – such is the nature of the voice, sweet and toxic. Lawliet catches himself leaning forward, peering closer, but he can’t bring himself to move away. He leans over to gaze at Light’s expression, unable to pull his eyes away.

“No,” Light says softly, whispering in sleep, his hands bony and stark against the sheets. “Don’t… Don’t shoot me…”

Lawliet tilts backwards, caught off guard by the immediacy and inadvertent intimacy of the quiet plea.

“L….” Light says, lips curling, unbeknownst to the audience of one he was caught with.

Lawliet thinks of night flowers out in the ground miles past where they stay, growing and lacing among themselves, beautiful amaranth – thinks of what Light saw earlier. The feeling of handcuffs is suddenly greater than simply its immediate consequences.

_It was necessary for the case._

“Light-kun,” he says quickly, reaching to brush Light’s arm, stir him from the reluctant solitude of dreams. “Wake up.”

Light responds to the touch almost instantly, his amber eyes wide as he blinks into wakefulness, stirring onto his back to see Lawliet staring back at him. He passes through a race of facial expressions with moments: first, shock, and then a peculiar resting peacefulness.

_Like he trusts me to take care of him._

A pause. “You’re still here,” Light says simply, his voice small, if a voice can be such a thing as small. Lawliet recoils minutely, before remembering that it was not L’s place to shrink away. Rather, L – his alias, the embodiment – capitalized on such things.

“Ah…yes, Light-kun, of course,” Lawliet says evenly. “We’ll be spending rather a lot of time together, if you recall.”

Light’s cheeks flush, and Lawliet’s stomach twists at the vision – he thinks of butterfly wings at the corner of lips, a mouth he had wanted to kiss, made furious by longing and the allure of dangerous temptation. Butterflies: tainting the untouched, the untouchable, falling with wings. Lies. Spiderweb hands, with spiders for bones.

Light had experienced nightmares about being threatened by his father.

Any normal person would.

_Is it my place to comfort him?_

_It was my plan. If I was wrong..._

Quickly, almost abashedly, Lawliet reaches out and accidentally brushes the side of Light’s hair as he pushes himself up further, eyes flicking over the parts itching to be silver. Light shrinks into the pillow, gaze wide as he stares back, his collarbones shielded by the careful fabric of Lawliet’s shirt. “Sleep, now,” says Lawliet, raising a finger to his lips. “We’re working tomorrow, if you’ll take care to recall.”

“You’re right, Ryuzaki,” Light says carefully, the words not precisely matching the continuity of their predecessors, and somehow it doesn’t matter. Light stares up at Lawliet, his eyes wide; in turn, Lawliet’s breath is abruptly stolen.

_You…_

He’s Kira, and so he cannot be beautiful, but something about him is breathtaking even so. Perhaps it’s the weight of sleep on Lawliet’s mind, clouding him, but he feels the rush of life that fills him at the sight of Light, glancing back, stare even and unabashed.

_This is too fast. Too much._

  _It’s because he’s your One._

  _You trick yourself into these feelings because it’s the logical course that the rest of the world follows, but it is not reality._

  _Make no decisions based on brash emotionality._

 

* * *

 

 

It’s said that those who have lived for longer have more vivid dreams, their consciences melting between the world of the fabricated and the real, richness painting the tapestries of their minds.

Lawliet considers fetching his laptop, but his body is more tired than it has been in all the years he can recall. The tiredness is in his limbs, real concrete to weigh him down, so he stays curled up against Light. He listens as his shadow breathes softly, feels the pace of his chest rising and unfolding as something of a reassuring pattern.

_You’re becoming complacent._

_Is this a symptom of aging?_

_Already?_

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams of Montmartre, the old district back in Paris, when he had visited in the 1920s after the first World War. He and Quillsh had separated for a time, two shadows departed from each other – one in France, one back in England. Montmartre had been the Mount of Mars, the mount of the martyrs, center of a cultural movement. He had found himself wandering the streets, stopping at cafes, spending hours walking with hands in the pockets of his loose jacket until he suddenly blinked awake and realized, consciously, where he was.

Wide-legged pants were first popular, then, at least in Western nations. Many things became popular quickly, including art. _The revival._

He’d been there to solve a case – the murder of a prostitute, virtually untraceable to the origin of the culprit. The world then was gritty and dark, gilded by the eccentric and glamorous surrealism of exhilaration; the streets were sometimes crowded, sometimes promised to melt into alleys, and Lawliet couldn’t explain it, but he was almost certain he could find something important in the clues.

Such crime wasn’t uncommon to the area, but word of the murder had spread until it reached London; whispers told stories about a body, found in a room left completely bare and cleaned, unsolvable and nonsensical words riddled together, letters on a plane with some boxes filled and others left empty. Those letters comprised crossword puzzles, the kinds that weren’t distributed widely until a decade later.

(In hindsight, he was almost certain that the work could be attributed to Beyond Birthday, who was abundantly fond of such games, such intricate manifestations of the human mind and ideas.)

The head detective on that particular case had been Marie Deneuve. A woman in the line of work had been unusual at that time, and Lawliet was slightly caught off guard by the name, but he forged ahead regardless.

Deneuve – she was lovely, sharp, intelligent, capable. Her eyes were a wide and warm brown, as she swallowed anyone who looked at her whole. Lawliet had shaken her hand, waiting – and still nothing. It wasn’t his place to solve the case, but by that point he’d built a name for himself in the world’s detective community.

It was to be the last time he’d appear publically while assisting the resolution of a case.

One day, when Lawliet had been running late – he’d been unable to sleep, staying awake for the night wandering along the Seine, his thoughts drowned in the familiar rush of the water against the bank, all the houses and streets asleep, only the stars awake to watch the parade of the man gladly fleeting in madness – he found himself lost, until he stumbled into consciousness outside a café, the sun long risen.

They’d been close to a breakthrough, he was sure of it.

Quickly, he rushed to the same building he met with the other heads on the case, the inexplicable feeling of panic filling his stomach, urging at his lungs – go faster, go faster, faster – until he saw the ambulances, smelled the ash, saw it soaring to the sky, and the uncomfortable itch of his skin was confirmed.

It was an accidental fire, they deemed later.

Everyone on the investigative team had choked on the smoke when they were trapped in headquarters, their lungs filled with the lick of the flames. Marie Deneuve, bright and filled with youth, so much like Lawliet, the embodiment of all they had worked to find on the case – gone.

He made certain that the press kept the names of those who had passed secret from the press, forging aliases for those who had died in the fire instead. He decided to take Deneuve’s name as something of a trophy, of a momentum – to remind the world that Deneuve was still a formidable figure. He worked under her name; in some ways it crushed him, and in other ways it formed him.

Later, he was sure it had been Beyond who’d started the fire, perhaps – perhaps they’d come too close to solving the case.

And now, Lawliet dreams he’s in front of an old cafe in the same Paris, his feet tucked into old shoes, a worn hat on his head. His arms are wrapped into a suitjacket, the front tightly buttoned, and it’s maybe a bit too large for his thin frame.

“Hello,” says a familiar voice, as though said closely to his ear. “Can I help you?”

Lawliet glances to the side, wholly unsurprised to see Beyond Birthday sitting at a small table in front of the store.

“You again.”

Beyond delicately raises an eyebrow and peers over the newspaper in his hands, smiling brightly and never for a moment glancing from Lawliet. “You’re looking well. A bit older, perhaps?”

Lawliet carefully paces forward, looking at the people around him. They appear normal, even if they don’t seem to be able to see him. “What’re you doing here?” he asks thinly.

“I’m your friend,” Beyond says, eyes bright and mockingly innocent. “Can’t friends visit each other?”

“We aren’t friends,” says Lawliet plainly, implicitly weary. “You may as well state your point.”

Beyond smiles a bit, his eyes deep red, hair falling onto his forehead in an almost graceful gesture. “I just wanted to remind you,” he says, “of what you already know. You don’t have to kill him, when you prove he’s Kira.”

“There’s no question he’s Kira,” Lawliet says absently, already disengaging from the conversation, remembering in the back of his mind where he’s sleeping. “Light Yagami is nothing more than a mass murderer.”

“If that’s what you want to think,” says Beyond, his voice oddly melodic, sing-song in a rhyming, puzzling fashion. “Do you want it to be him?”

Lawliet recoils, subtly so – he clenches his hands into fists, gazes away from the figure at the table – remembering that this is his consciousness speaking to him. Beyond Birthday is appearing through a dream, a manifestation of nothing more than Lawliet’s own innermost thoughts, a fitting place for demons.

_Think of it logically._

“I’ve never been wrong,” he says coolly, pausing for only a moment. “So I doubt it’s incorrect to assume that he's Kira. I wouldn’t like to start being incorrect now.”

_A part of me wants it to be him._

_And even so, a part of me…_

“But you’d be fine with it, if he were not Kira,” Beyond says, with an impish grin. “You could fall for him. Maybe you’ve already started. He’s got such a pretty mind, doesn’t he?”

“His deductive skills are impressive,” Lawliet concedes, almost boredly, turning away. Show nothing, not even to yourself.

“You want him to be your friend,” Beyond says, filling in the emptiness of the silence.

“No.” Lawliet pauses, sinking into more of himself, raises a finger to his lips. “I want to solve this case, and then work to solve as many as I can. Before…”

“Yes. Time is limited these days.”

There’s no definitive cutoff, but when Lawliet glances at Beyond, almost forgets that this is not real – there is no Paris here, there is no 1920, there is only now, and the chain that binds him to his key suspect.

He melts into awareness.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning is a vaguely awkward affair. Light cannot stop blinking sleepily, as though part of him had been left tucked between the sheets, head still resting on the pillow, when he pushes himself off the bed onto the sun-bathed carpet. Lawliet, for his part, is vividly awake, his mind humming with the energy of restfulness; he’d undoubtedly be incapable of sleeping the next night.

“Ryuzaki,” Light says, his voice low and almost slurred. “Do you have coffee?”

“Ah. Yes.”

The chain clicking incessantly between them, they pace towards the kitchen, sunbeams streaming in through the windows. The blinds are not pulled shut, and so the entire room is sickeningly gold. _It matches Light’s eyes._

Six hundred years have been instrumental in learning how to make coffee; usually, it’s Quillsh who makes it, but Lawliet knows enough to get by. Light stands behind him as he measures out the grounds, and turns on the pot.

_This will be it, every morning._

“Maybe we’ll catch Kira today,” Light mumbles, wrapping his fingers around his wrists.

“Perhaps.” Lawliet narrows his eyes.

_I’ve already caught you._

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet notices that Light pulls at the hair at his temples, when he’s concentrating. Sitting together at the table, it’s not unlike their first venture after the tennis game – but Light seems, somehow, uncertain, unsure in his own skin.

_This skin is new. It’s one I gave to him._

_I, too, wear it well._

They don’t speak to each other. They are silent, each in separate worlds.

_Will it change?_

 This is how, Lawliet thinks, we learn how to not only destroy – but to tear apart with whispers, to implode. It’s all in the waiting. It's in the time that passes when they learn nothing on either side.

“May I get changed?” Light asks quietly, after an immeasurable amount of time. “I slept in these clothes.” His eyes flick to the handcuffs.

“Yes. Of course.” Lawliet raises an eyebrow, and gestures lazily towards the bedroom. The stickiness of the sugar in his coffee clings to his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Each moment takes a lifetime.

Lawliet’s breath hitches in his throat, as they walk back the bedroom.

_Just in case._

He remembers that Beyond Birthday said:

_"...when you prove he's Kira."_

When.

_Artwork by[pashmina-dhaage](http://pashmina-dhaage.tumblr.com/). Do not repost without permission._


	16. A Person Who Never Returned to the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So save us both,” Light says softly. “I know you can.”
> 
> He slides his hand into Lawliet’s.
> 
> Time freezes again.

 

_S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse  
_ _A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,  
_ _Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.  
_ _Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo  
_ _Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,  
_ _Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo._

 

 

Again, the handcuffs unclick at Lawliet’s will, but this time there are no blue roses to bear witness to their secret crime. Nothing is as shiny as it was in the bathroom; the room breathes into everything that is new and leaves it matte empty.  

Light shows no signs of running. He pulls the shirt from his shoulders, lets it fall ungracefully to the floor, and averts his eyes quickly. The action suggests that he’s almost as though he’s shy, or ashamed – perhaps more likely hiding something. The percentage of his concealing something is great.  An overt shyness replacing secrecy is something uncharacteristic of the Light, whose confidence always crept through the lens of cameras in the Yagami residence.

Lawliet makes no effort to take his own shirt off; instead, he concentrates on refraining from the desire to stare at Light’s collarbones, and how they curve into his neck.  He considers what it would feel like to leave his thumb right there, at the hollow of the arches – if Light would sneer back at him, as he might have once done, or if he would instead cup his hand over Lawliet’s with that peculiar look.  The idea that he could ask for forgiveness with silence, or with a brush of his lips, is a dangerous one. It’s a game, and that’s why Light kissed his hand in the bathtub.  That’s why he spans planes of existence, manifesting in dreams, running again and again to find Lawliet.

_There is no way Light Yagami isn’t Kira._

_He’s the only way intelligent enough to keep things going for this long; that’s simple enough logic.  But it’s not enough._

Lawliet raises a thumb to his lips, turns to stare out the window at the sun hesitantly peering through the cross of the windowpane.

_How many sunrises are left?_

He pauses. 

It doesn’t matter how long he considers how much time he has left; the importance is in how he uses it, because if he spends his time considering the principle of it – as he had done for so long, emptily waiting for something that never came to find him – anything that was left would lose meaning.

Lawliet glances at Light, who stares at his palms facing the ceiling, eyes ever-so-slightly dark with bags, hair slightly messy from lying against the pillow.  His hair is a halo of darkened crimson, devoid of grey.  Lawliet also notices that Light’s fingernails are unusually neat – clean-cut perfect half moons.

_I want to be the one to bring Kira back._

_Light Yagami, you will prove you are Kira._

_It’s the least you can do._

At the thought, something of a shudder ripples through him.  In his dream, the climax of it had nothing to do with the concession from Light, butterfly wings hanging at his lips, and it had everything to do with the question left afterwards.

But it’s irrelevant now.  The most intimate thing that either of them could do as Ones, comprised alike of lies, would be to divulge the truth.  Lawliet won’t cave first.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no point in worrying about the time passing. It falls harder and harder, spills a little more like the few granules of sugar tipping out of the side of Lawliet’s coffee spoons. 

 

* * *

 

 

On their first full day of being handcuffed together, Light barely looks at Lawliet, or at anyone else.  He sits quietly in his chair and spins the pen through his fingers. Lawliet notes that the habit is a relic Light had exhibited frequently from when he was monitored back at the Yagami residence; he seemed to do it when he was concentrating. Light’s face is stone, his calm amber eyes thoughtful as he glances at the window.

Soichiro, Aizawa, and Matsuda conduct work as usual when they arrive, one at a time.  Soichiro comes first – the look in his eyes when he glances at Light is equal parts surprised and suspicious, all parts subtle, but it doesn’t slip past Lawliet.

_He can tell something changed._

Lawliet thinks of Light quickly kissing the back of his hand, and clenches his teeth against the thought.

_Am I a monster?  Who else but a monster could have a monster as his One?_

If anyone else notices anything, they don’t reveal it. They keep their heads down low, maybe to let their eyes skirt over the bright silver of the handcuffs as they dance and sing their sick laugh.  Matsuda inhales a little too quickly sometimes, his breath shaky, and the thought evoked is a dizzy reminder of the stakes.

“We’ll be moving to the new headquarters starting tomorrow,” Quillsh says, his voice abrupt through the relative quiet of the task force sorting through videotapes.  Lawliet, sorting through the profiles of criminals who had reportedly died of heart attacks, glances up at the distinct tone.  Quillsh is sharper than usual.

_He doesn’t approve of this.  How could he?_

“Ah, yes.  There should be more computers there,” Lawliet cuts in. Light glances away from the window, a fierce look suddenly repainting his features.  _Determination._  “It’ll be easier to conduct our work there, permanently.  We can provide everyone with the resources necessary to solve this case as quickly as possible.”

He pretends to not hear Matsuda’s whispers to Aizawa.

“How rich must he be to just make buildings for whatever case he wants?”

“This is a special case, Matsuda.” Aizawa’s tone is thin, a barely-there veneer of politeness.

“I look forward to it, Ryuzaki,” says Light quickly, his voice abruptly vibrant, musically soaring over the low murmurings in the room. Soichiro, too, glances over at the sound of Light’s words.

“Yes?”  Lawliet raises an eyebrow, sparing a moment to glance at Quillsh, who – in spite of his face appearing stony and cold – is decidedly uncomfortable in posture. In any case, his hands are clenched tightly into fists.

“We’ll be able to catch Kira much more quickly with access to better technology,” Light supplements evenly. “Especially when we’re in a consistent place.  I feel like we’re close.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” Lawliet says mildly. “Watari, could you get us some ice cream?”

He doesn’t have to glance up to know the closed-lip, subtle glare undoubtedly directed at his shoulders when he hears the predictable tongue-in-cheek, “Of course.”

_We haven’t spoken much since I told him about aging._

_Still…_

“I love ice cream,” Matsuda whispers with that shadow of excitement in his voice, as Lawliet glances over to see Light silhouetted against the sun setting on the manufactured horizon of buildings.

In spite of himself, the first thing he thinks –

_He's beautiful._

The sun’s rays dance, from Lawliet’s angle, right at Light’s lips.

There’s no mistaking that he is angelic, at least in appearance.

_He wants to be the most beautiful in everything he does._

_That’s why he…_

_Feels the need to be Kira._

_He feels that he needs to be the best._

Light throws him a quick glance, as if he could hear the very thoughts themselves, and Lawliet stares back.

If he stares, if he stares hard enough to read between the lines and the secrets, he can just barely see the way that Light’s forehead is etched the slightest bit of aging lines.

_You are one of the best at lying, Light Yagami._

 

* * *

 

 

The evening takes place much in the same fashion, except that Light doesn’t grab Lawliet’s hand.  Instead, he brushes his fingers against the flat, dull blade of Lawliet’s hipbone when they rinse off in the shower – perhaps an accident, perhaps deliberate, but the reaction is the same.  Suspicion.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how many years have you been alive?” Light asks when they sit side by side in the tub, his voice warm and low in the shining quiet of the space.

“Mmm.  Many. If I tell you, Light, I could reveal more about the identity of L.”  It’s an easy way of dismissing two problems in one instance – the question of time, and the question of honesty.

_I don’t even trust him enough to tell him that much._

“I see.”

To ask such a thing is basic politeness between Ones, and Light Yagami is adept at being polite.  Charming, even.  Asking is not only for his interest, but also for the appearance of normality and believability; he presents himself as innocent because he wants to believe in it.

For some reason, it’s difficult to not scream. lawliet knows that his silence must be maddening to Light, who undoubtedly is filled to the brim with questions, both as Kira and as the student he is, but the only option is to keep secrets silent. It’s always been that way. Eventually, Light will stop asking questions about the reaper sending him to his death.

_Is this what it is to destroy? To comprise and build and cast the mechanisms of destruction?_

Light sits with arms tucked closely to his sides, twirling a pinky finger in the water, watching Lawliet with his mouthfuls of secrets and lies.  The dark amber of his hair and the lighter gold of his eyes make up the patterns of butterfly wings.

 

* * *

 

 

_Faster, now.  Faster and faster._

Lawliet picks up the meager piles of his belongings and stuffs them into spines of suitcases for Quillsh to transport to the new headquarters.  They leave in the late morning, when the sun is just creeping up to the top of the sky with its spindly rays thin-boned against the clouds. 

 _Faster and faster now.  Fall.  Fall._ It's summer, and it's hot. 

Lawliet had slept through part of the night, dreamless but restless; Light, this time around, didn’t appear to wake with fear on his lips again.  The morning came and it was Lawliet who dragged a bleary-eyed Light out of bed onto the marbled floors.

_Come on, Light.  Let’s go._

Light wears Lawliet’s shirts and pants again. Soichiro will bring more of Light’s belongings to headquarters; this is a facet of reclaiming identity, or so it could appear.

 

* * *

 

 

Misa meets them at the new building, and she’s filled to the brim with smiles, rushing into Light’s arms the moment they open the doors to the main office headquarters.  She’d immediately soared down from her room when she heard the news that they were arriving soon; Lawliet pretends to ignore the way that Light looks at him over the top of Misa’s head.  His looks are always varieties of secret, never-touching embraces.

Matsuda makes a noise in the back of his throat as he watches, and Lawliet throws him a deliberate glance, narrowing his eyes somewhat.  Matsuda laughs a little nervously – an entire conversation spoken with no words. _Matsuda, don’t give anything away. It’s critical that Light and I remain secrets._

“Light, can we go on a date soon?” Misa asks, her voice bright.  Every time she tosses her hair over her shoulder, the air is filled with the scent of strawberries. The sound of her heels clicking impatiently against the marble floors is cavernous, somehow, in Lawliet’s ears at the very thought of such a proposition.  “Even if he has to be here,” she adds after a moment, glancing at him.

Her eyes are bright blue today. Contact lenses. Lawliet thinks of Beyond Birthday.

“Maybe soon,” Light says carefully, pulling away and holding her at arm’s length.  “What’s most important now is that we work on the case.  I’ll spend time with you when I can.”

“Maybe she’s right, Light,” Lawliet drawls abruptly, almost causing Matsuda to jump out of his shoes.  “Maybe you should go on a date with her soon.”

Light stares at him, eyes burning with something wordless, as if to say – n _o, I won’t use her.  I don’t care what you want me to do.  I don’t care if it has nothing to do with you, or everything._

Misa cheers, spinning around with a blush coloring her cheekbones.  “Yay!” she says quickly, her voice rising.  “Soon, Ryuzaki!” More clicking on the floor.

“When we’re done working on things for the case,” Light adds in a voice that sounds as though he’s clenching his teeth to speak. It gives Lawliet an odd sort of satisfaction.

_Maybe it’s fun to play around with him after all._

 

* * *

 

 

They spend the night working, until long after all the others have gone to sleep.  Lawliet tears off small pieces of paper and throws them at Light’s arm, boredom manifesting in amusement.  Light glances over at him, abruptly perplexed, as if to say – _L?  The greatest detective in the world, my One_ – is doing this?

Even so, amusement quickly fades to irritation.

“Ryuzaki.”

“Yes?”

“Could you quit that?  I’m trying to sort through these papers.” Light runs his fingernails along the stack of papers to emphasize his point.

“Why, certainly.  And Light?”

“Yes?”

“I expect you to spend some time with Miss Amane tomorrow.”

Light bristles, but silently. His hands tighten into fists. “If I do that…”

“We’ll be one step closer to solving the case,” Lawliet finishes flatly.  “Mmm. And you should sleep soon. I’ll bring a laptop to bed.”

Light stares back, holding a hand to the hair at his temples, pulling on it slightly.  “If you insist.”  He sounds vaguely distressed.

_I do insist._

A thought quickly crosses his mind.

_If we had met in any other circumstances, would it have been like this?_

_Late nights working on cases?_

_You’d still be here, with me._

The thought almost freezes him, but not quite. If anything, it’s all the more reason to solve the case either way.  He’s never been wrong, so it’s unlikely that Light Yagami isn’t Kira – but if he isn’t, then maybe there’s a way of working through time such that it begins to mean something again.

_Maybe we could spend our time like any other Ones._

Lawliet quickly brushes the thought out of his mind, biting into his thumb a little.  He’s been awake for too long; that’s the source of such thoughts, he supposes, as he glances at the desk Light sat at with all the little balls of paper crumpled on the desk.

_Why did I do a childish thing like that?_

 

* * *

 

 

The beds in the room are twin-sized, spaced apart only by one nightstand.  There’s a bathroom connected in the corner.  Light moves towards the bed closest to the window, leaving Lawliet the one closer to the bathroom. 

“Sleeping in separate beds?” Light says quietly, almost to himself.  Lawliet’s head snaps up at the words, something in his stomach pulling at him with a unique sharpness, but he remains blank, his hands tucked unassumingly in his pockets.

“You expected a different arrangement?”

Light stares back, his eyes bright in the relative darkness.  “I’d expected differently, yes.  I thought you’d want to observe me…”

“As you slept, Light?” Lawliet supplies, dismissive. “As I have the past few nights?”

“Something like that.  If you really think I am Kira, I don’t know why you wouldn’t.” He lowers his voice. “And even all of that aside, I am your One. Ones are supposed to do things like that.”

“So you propose pushing the beds together, then?”

“It’s a possibility.”  Hesitation fills the air, carefully guised as interrogation, the usual masquerade.  “Does it raise your suspicions of me?”

“There’s a chance,” Lawliet clarifies, “that you use the principle that we share the bond of being trapped in time together to your advantage.  Perhaps you think that by getting closer, you’ll be a step closer to finding out more about L.” He raises his thumb to his lips, barely smiling.

Light’s brow furrows, and he bites his lip the slightest bit when he digs his hands into his pockets.  “I’m not Kira,” he mutters.

“We’ll see in time.”  Lawliet hesitates.  “But I suppose if you’re interested in pushing the beds together, we could.” He’s abruptly conscious of his laptop in his hands, the way he suddenly feels small, like he can barely stand.

“It could prove I’m not Kira more quickly, so it’s worth it.”

_Is this what it is, to be embarrassed? Reserved?_

His heart beats keenly in his wrists. It’s a reminder that the clock is racing in more ways than one, and Light’s eyes dance in the darkness of the room.  A sort of temptation.

_Push this nonsense away.  Keep working._

 

* * *

 

 

They meet with Misa in her bedroom the next day, when there’s some down time in sifting through old tapes and paperwork. Lawliet designates the task to Matsuda and Aizawa, leaving Soichiro in charge of headquarters. Quillsh remains firmly stationed at the security station – alone.

“Good afternoon, Miss Amane,” says Lawliet when she opens the door to let them in to her room.  It’s a precise replica of all the other residential suites in the building, save for the decorations; the rest of the hallway, all belonging to her, is much the same.  Almost impossible to ignore are the gothic little dolls lined up on the bed, staring with dead button eyes, and Lawliet hears Light’s breath hitch in his throat.

_Is it possible that this could unsettle someone usually so composed?_

_Surely not, if his consciousness has, in fact, reached godlike proportions…  Nothing should be out of the question._

Misa’s eyes brush over Lawliet. “Hello, Light,” she says, with a smile in her voice.  “And I guess you’re here too.”  The addition is accompanied by a passing glance at Lawliet’s shoulders.  “Should I make tea, Light?”

“Tea would be nice,” Light says idly, and when Lawliet glances back he sees that Light is running his fingers over the links in the handcuff chains.  His hands are pale, and he’s a far cry from the vision of a god surrounded in a field of butterflies, with those marbled golds all over his lips and cheekbones. This, this room with empty tables and chairs, is no place for a god.  It’s for human sensibilities and desires only.

They sit at the rectangular table in the middle of the room.  In spite of Lawliet’s predictions, Misa brings three cups of tea, in delicate porcelain cups that have those small chips at the rim and pink lace flowers stitched on the sides by paintbrushes. She sets his down carelessly, but gives it to him nonetheless.  She gives Light his more deliberately, with an implicit sort of sweetness.

_What would it be like, to care for someone like that?_

“So, Light,” she says, loosely pulling at her sleeves and running a finger around her wrist listlessly, “how’s your day been?”

“It’s been fine,” he says, eyes flicking up to see the window.  “Busy.  Looks nice outside. It’s probably hot today. How about your day?”

“Great, now that you’re here.” She smiles, and her teeth are bright white.  She’s the picture of health, radiant and bright; her hands are delicate and her fingernails are painted a deep crimson. 

Lawliet finds himself biting on his thumb staring at her, somehow envious or perhaps just intrigued in the pit of his stomach. “This would be better if we had cake,” he remarks dryly, raising the cup of tea to his lips. The chain tying him to Light rustles against the chairs, singing for attention.

“How’d you sleep, Light?” Misa asks, ignoring Lawliet’s remark; she likely wants to pretend he’s not there, he supposes.

“Fine, thank you.”

“He slept next to me,” Lawliet chimes in, almost laughing at the way she’ll inevitably react.  Perhaps she’ll be coerced inadvertently into revealing more information about having been Kira – because how could she not have been the Second Kira? Even the dolls lined up on the bed appear to be proponents of her guilt.  They’re like lost souls she collected.  He thinks of Ukita.

“He what?” Misa asks, narrowing her eyes, staring back at him evenly.  She reaches across the table, grabs for Light’s hand – he abruptly drops the cup he’d been holding, to save it from breaking with the immediacy of the moment. “Did he bother you, Light?”

“I was working on sorting some files for this case,” Lawliet says before Light has a moment to interject.  “I believe the sound of typing on the keys may have kept him awake for a bit, but it was Light who insisted that we should sleep in the same bed.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s just messing with you, Misa,” says Light a little dryly, dipping his head down to look at the table. He avoids glancing at Lawliet. “I’m fine.  I am a little tired, but it’s nothing if it means we can solve the case sooner.”

 _He’s so bright._   Lawliet’s eyes widen.  “I couldn’t imagine a better person to be working on the case with me,” he says evenly.  “Light is very determined.”

“Does that mean you don’t think he’s Kira anymore?” Misa lifts her eyes, and for a moment they seem almost dark red, like wine, dancing and shimmering. _She’s very beautiful, youthful. Nowhere near fading to dust._

“Mmm… Not necessarily.  I mean to say only that he is intent on working.”

Light sucks in his breath, exhales deeply, traces some invisible drawing into the table with a finger – and then leans back, crossing his arms.  The chain slaps against itself and Lawliet glances at it dismissively.  “We’re going to catch Kira soon,” Light says, firm. “Maybe even today. Soon.”

“That’s my Light,” Misa says, cheerily enough.  She smiles.

Lawliet, naturally, can’t resist the temptation – or, rather, hardly considers it temptation at all.   It’s the natural progression.  “And if Light is Kira?”

“I’ll love him all the same.” Her voice is even, no question raised in the answer. 

_She’s set her mind on dedicating herself to this man; she has the love of a soulmate for him even when it’s clear that she is not his soulmate.  Why else would she love him, if he were not Kira?  That should be proof enough._

_But it’s so straightforward…_

“Well, then,” Lawliet says, a secret smile in his voice.  “Please don’t let my presence interfere with your date.  Pretend that I’m not even here.”

“Yeah, right.  As if we could,” Misa says, rolling her eyes, clicking her tongue impatiently. She brushes imaginary dust off her long socks.

“He has to do this,” Light says quietly, his voice a sharp slice through the air.  “It’ll help him see that I’m not Kira, and that you’re not, either, Misa. He’s not here because he wants to be. As soon as this is all wrapped up, you’ll never have to see him again.”

_Am I mistaken to say that there is a trace of bitterness in his voice?_

“Light is correct,” Lawliet says, lowering his hands and placing them on his knees.  He’s curled up in that particular way again, tucking himself as tightly into his chest as he possibly can.  “I appreciate your cooperation, Miss Amane.  You’ll have Light all to yourself soon enough.”  The statement, whether held as truthful or filled with lies, is irrelevant.

He glances over, curious to see the subsequent reaction, and sees only that Light is running his fingers over the chainlinks again, staring out the window.  His face is blank, or perhaps empty, as he stares far away, eyes slightly glazed with something unreadable.  _Will he be happy to never see me again?_

_That is, if he isn’t Kira._

_But he is._

He’ll be sentenced to death, when he’s caught, Lawliet thinks.  He’ll be thrown into prison, likely be put to death immediately, or otherwise left to rot until he disappears in all forms but concrete. Time will rip holes into him in all ways. That’s what happens to murderers, and it’s been that way for centuries.  No one knows that better than Lawliet.

He’d like to think that there was no vacuum in his stomach that yawned at the thought that regardless of how the future played out, there was no world in which he and his One could ever be together; he’d like to think there was no such emptiness that filled him at the precise idea, as all the worlds that could possibly exist opened before him.

_There is no way._

_This is the only way we could’ve met, in any case.  It's what we have._

Impossibly, Lawliet’s hands start to shake; he stares intently at the chain around his wrist.

“Good,” says Misa, her otherwise innocent voice sounding all but entirely cold in an instant.  She narrows her eyes at Lawliet, and then glances back to Light. “What do you want to do, Light? This is our date, after all.”

Light leans a hand against the table, presses his cheek into it as though bored.  Lawliet knows it’s a mask – how could it be anything other than that? “Actually, I think I’d like to go back to working on the case again soon,” he says smoothly, ignoring the way that Misa leans backward almost indignantly at the declaration. “There’s so much to do.”

“But this was supposed to be our date! How can you be my boyfriend if you won’t even go on dates with me?”

“Do you even consider this a date?” Light asks, tilting his head in Lawliet’s general direction and raising an eyebrow. Lawliet fights the urge to smile in turn.

_It’s rather less romantic with my presence, granted. But there was no way we could let the First and Second Kiras rendezvous together without some sort of external party involved._

“Ah, Light, are you insinuating my presence detracts from the romantic atmosphere?” Lawliet asks evenly, not breaking for a moment. Light glances over, perhaps taken aback by the abruptness of the comment, his eyes suddenly wide, almost filled with something of a smile. 

“Yes,” says Misa flatly, hijacking the response, drumming her fingernails on the table and causing Lawliet to break his glance with Light and look at her instead.

“Well.  If Light would like to leave…”

Lawliet starts to stand, rustling the chain between the handcuffs a bit more than was completely necessary. Light, too, begins to stand, until –

“Light!  Wait.”

Misa rushes up from where she sits at the table, and suddenly grabs Light’s hand.  She pulls closer to him, and buries her head in the curve of his chest. She mumbles something like, “I love you.”

“Misa,” Light says, as though the breath had been knocked out of him.  He throws a look over his shoulder to Lawliet, eyes wide and shining with something unreadable. Lawliet merely shrugs, tucks his hands into his pockets. 

“Would you like to kiss me?” Misa asks softly, raising her hand to touch his arm.  Light appears frozen.

_No._

_Don’t._

Lawliet bites the inside of his lip, tilts his head to the side needlessly as if to let the thoughts fall out of his head. “Go on, Light,” he says, too fast. “You don’t need to be too serious, after all.” The words tumble out of his mouth all wrong and they sound bitter rather than humorous, but the rushing in his ears makes it so that he doesn’t care.

Light doesn’t look back, but he bends down enough so that he’s closer to her.  He raises a hand and tucks it behind her hair, kisses her quickly but full on the mouth. Lawliet sees Misa’s cheekbones burn vibrant pink, and he’s suddenly too much fist, too much stone. He pulls ever so-slightly-on the handcuffs, but Light doesn’t seem to notice.

Maybe this is how Kira will show himself – by loving her.

It doesn’t help that he’s abruptly nauseous, as though by waiting for sickness to manifest itself in Light, Lawliet himself has become fatigued with illness.

Light turns away, mutters something about goodbye as Misa stares after him with wide and loving eyes.  As he passes Lawliet, he brushes his fingers against Lawliet’s wrist, and whispers something for only the pair of them to hear:

“It’s what you wanted, right?”

There’s a sudden chill along Lawliet’s spine.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Kira,” Lawliet says softly, the word like dirty rain crashing onto the forlorn dirt smeared across the unfeeling marble of a grave.  It’s worse than the rain slapping against their window at the precise moment, somehow even colder._

_[And, somehow, I don’t want to do this anymore._

_I wanted you to be Kira, but now…_

_I’m not sure I’d mind if you weren’t.]_

_He gazes at Light’s back, silhouette graceful against the windowpane.  The curve of his neck is lovely as ever._

_“I’m not,” Light says, raising his voice and breaking the visual of marble that Lawliet saw in him as his words broke. Anger creases his forehead when he turns, and his cheeks are bright red.  He’s visibly trembling, and he moves like lightning.  “I’m not.  I’ve told you thousands of times.  What do I have to do to make you believe me?”_

_He’s suddenly pushing Lawliet onto the bed, angrily grabbing at Lawliet’s wrists and pinning them to the side in some sort of desperate, faint-sick fevered dream.  He’s close, so close, and Lawliet’s breath hitches in his throat._

_[This again.]  It’s not unlike the way Light had punched him in Misa’s room, not long ago._

_Light’s eyes are heavy amber, filled to the brim with the questions drowning him, and a sort of tiredness – as if to say, can we stop?  This isn’t the most important thing._

_Lawliet fights the immediate and overwhelming urge to place his hand at the small of Light’s back, to hold him closer with the breath of space between them, eliminate any semblance of a gap holding them apart, but his hands are abruptly cold and he’s incapable of moving. Not only that – he doesn’t want to move. Again, the whispers – [touch me] – draw him like knives folded into the creases of old tables, like the temptation of six hundred years of anticipation wants to govern him but he’s too afraid to simply be, and he’s more than his instincts.  He can only register the arc of Light’s hipbones and the outline of his figure pressed into the gaps of the space – still too much space – they’re closer than they had ever been and still something is missing._

_“Light,” Lawliet whipsers, almost choked, dropping the honorific in favor of something as honest as the silver hair they had hidden for its overwhelming, dangerous innocence that needed to be destroyed. “Light.”_

_[Interesting that the premise of calling him this way feels more authentic than calling him Kira.]_

_Light’s eyes are suddenly soft, the harder lines of his body melting into Lawliet’s posture, amber turning to gold. His hands tighten around Lawliet’s._

_[You’re the only person who could be Kira. It’s only you. Only you could have concealed it for this long.  But…]_

_“An eye for an eye, my friend,” Lawliet says quickly, gripping more tightly and turning to roll over so that he’s now on top of the tangled mess of sheets and limbs and the feeling of Light so close to him is nearly overwhelming to the rational part of his mind. He aches at seeing the flush in Light’s cheekbones, lovely and painstaking like the wings of a butterfly, pinned on a corkboard, picturesque and vibrant._

_[He doesn’t see you this way and you don’t need it.]_

_Lawliet thinks it’s the curiosity alone that compels the question of a sudden physical response, and he starts to pull away._

_[This isn’t right.  This isn’t you.]_

_“Wait,” Light says suddenly as Lawliet leans away from the embrace, fighting against a physical reaction to Light’s presence, the idea that even a single brush of their skin would send him into some sort of absurd craving to be touched.  It was a trap he didn’t need to fall into, one that could only restrain and twist his mind into something unrecognizably and unmistakably human._

_[Waited six hundred years for this? Is this what everyone always spoke about – want?]_

_His blood is close to the surface of his skin, rushing and singing, and that’s how he knows it’s time to leave._

_[Go to the bathroom and hide behind the door.] He knows he’s hit a new low when he wants to be physically apart from Light, potential of Kira-related activities be damned.  He needs the silence of his mind to rationalize and bring him back to earth._

_“L.”  Light falters like he dropped a glass._

_Lawliet pulls away; the sound of the chain against the sheets is an empty hymn.  “Don’t call me that.”  Not right now._

_“Ryuzaki.”_

_Lawliet has only a moment to turn before he finds his back pressed against the sheets again, feels Light’s hands on him, tucking careful and warm fingers against his chest._

_“Your doing any of this raises the percent likelihood of you being Kira, Light,” Lawliet says, choked, and he’s almost embarrassed by the way he sounds – like someone had knocked the air out of him, like he was filled heavy with desire.  He pours the ache into the way he grips the sheets._

_Light looks at him intently, as though he hadn’t heard Lawliet’s words.  “Ryuzaki,” he repeats, calm and even.  “The world’s greatest detective.  You are my One.”_

_“A wise observation.”  He’s breathing too heavily.  “Sixty percent.”_

_“You treat me most of the time as though you feel nothing,” Light says quietly, leaning down to brush against Lawliet’s ear with the whisper of it.  “But I’ll tell you something, a secret from me to you.”_

_[I love you.]_

_Lawliet clenches his jaw._

_“I’m not Kira.  I want to stay with you, after we find the culprit,” Light says quietly, his eyes wide moons, not obscured by dust.  He looks at Lawliet so clearly and so unabashedly – an unmistakably intimate moment, like they are being tied together by more than just the cord around their wrists._

_“You…” Lawliet trails off.  “Seventy percent.”_

_“Fine,” Light says, almost smiling as he pulls back to look at Lawliet bathed in the dim shadows cast all over the room. “I love you.”_

_Lawliet stops breathing.  Time stops._

_Light leans forward, brushes the hair from Lawliet’s forehead and kisses the smooth skin, leaves small kisses down the bridge of his nose.  He hesitates for a moment before leaning forward to press his lips against Lawliet’s. It’s a gentle and quick touch, chaste and warm._

_Light pulls away quickly, smiles only slightly, running his hands over Lawliet’s chest and tracing small circles into the skin there. “I had to try it once,” he says, and Lawliet hears him through ears that are suddenly filled with water, dreamlike as if he were on the sea drowning on the shore and Light is the siren calling to him._

_“My life changed when I met you,” Light continues evenly, pulling back so that he’s no longer touching Lawliet. “I understand you. Kira’s ideals are not unlike my own. I know you understand. But before I met you, I was unhappy. I can’t exactly remember all of it.”_

_“Seventy-five percent,” Lawliet says faintly, but it’s precious more than a formality to say. [This is a ruse, meant to trick me into trusting him.  But even so… This feels honest.]_

_But Light drives on, alone.  “Working with you makes me happy,” he says, somewhat flatly. “And I can’t imagine being without you. You are my One, after all. It’s not a difficult concept to imagine. I’m selfish, and staying with you is not unlike coming home.  I need you.” He pauses, looks towards the window. “I want to stay with you, after we catch the Yotsuba group.  We’re both going to die anyway.  I don’t want to die alone.”_

_Lawliet lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, his skin aching to be touched._

_“So save us both,” Light says softly. “I know you can.”_

_He slides his hand into Lawliet’s._

_Time freezes again._

_Lawliet thinks of his dream long ago, the one about Light in the field with the butterflies – enough so that he forgot that his One was even human at all._

_Time waits for him to respond._

_For the first time in months, it waits._

_There has never been a greater rush against the clock, but time is infinite in the small square of their room._

_Lawliet opens his mouth, imagines that butterflies pour out._

 

* * *

 

 

Passing through the hallways with west-facing large windows reveals that the sun is hazy as it dips to the sky and blurs when the afternoon fades into the night, and Light and Lawliet don’t speak as they walk back to the main room – headquarters – from Misa Amane’s floor. Lawliet feels a strange buzzing in his hands; he convinces himself halfheartedly that it’s related to the exhilaration of working to solve the case.  Perhaps Light kissing Misa marks a turn in the potential for either of them to reveal themselves as Kira.

Discussion with Soichiro back in the main room reveals that Matsuda accidentally broke a pen and spilled ink all over his hands, turning his fingers dark blue with the stain and coloring some of the older files. Lawliet resists the urge to sigh deeply.

“Go clean off,” he says instructionally to Matsuda from across the room, and his voice is tired.  He feels Light glance at him; his heart jumps a beat faster. “This shouldn’t cause too many setbacks, but…”

“Matsuda,” says Aizawa, through his teeth. “Don’t be an idiot.” He pulls at his hair, face turning red with frustration.  “We’re here for serious business.  We can’t hold Ryuzaki back.”

“Sorry, Aizawa.” 

“Mmm.  In any case, you should all go to your individual floors soon,” Lawliet remarks mildly, “except for Light.  You have no choice in the matter.  Sorry.” Light sighs a little, glances at the computers, but says nothing in response to the dry humor. “Thank you all for your time today.”

Soichiro bows his head.  Matsuda runs to the bathroom; Aizawa starts to pack things into his briefcase.  He raises a hand to his forehead again and again and it looks like a tedious motion. Lawliet stands in the middle of it all, not quite leaving but not quite sitting at the computers.

_He kissed her._

_Anyone else would be jealous if their One kissed someone else._

He thinks, inexplicably, of Beyond Birthday, with his manic smile that danced like thieves.

_You are the darker part of my heart. You would’ve understood jealousy. You would’ve told me that this is what that is._

 

* * *

 

 

The next days fade and pass into weeks in a monotonous fashion.  Lawliet sits in the bed on his laptop, sometimes for nights on end without sleeping, occasionally keeping Light awake.   But sometimes they both fall asleep, Lawliet resting against the feeling of Light’s spine moving slowly back and forth as he breathed deeply.  It’s a reminder that they’re both alive.  When they wake, they move to headquarters, and work in front of the computer.

It’s clear that there are still people dying of mysterious heart attacks, but Lawliet can’t help feeling there’s no point in making moves to work on the case.

_It’s not Light who’s doing this._

_How could we catch someone with Kira’s power, anyway?_

_I wanted Kira to be you, Light Yagami._

Patterns blur and fade away.  For the first time, it feels like time is being truly lost – or maybe thrown away.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s fair to say that the clock rules the day. They work in headquarters; there are visuals of clean-pressed white shirts and pens scratching against paper and keys clicking incessantly, Lawliet’s eyes lit up by the vibrancy of the screens as he scrolls through lists.  Hands clenched into fists.  Tired eyes, red-rimmed, and quiet thin lips pressed together.  Light Yagami brushes a hand over his forehead, pushes his bangs back, peers over the table to look at the things he scrawls there.  Matsuda laughs a little too loudly, and Aizawa yells a little too much – too angry to be real.  One day, he comes into the office with a scratch above his eyebrow, like someone had clawed at him.

Slowly, Lawliet learns Light Yagami.

The first thing he does when he wakes up is brush his teeth.  He combs through his hair very carefully, and hides the roots strategically, even though his hair is dyed in secret.  There are more freckles on his skin every day.  They keep the lighting low in headquarters so that no one notices, but sometimes when Lawliet glances up, he sees Matsuda watching the pair of them.

Once, he even hears him talking to Aizawa about it, when Soichiro leaves the room and Light is deep in thought peering at a computer monitor.

“Those two sit awfully close to each other all the time.”

“And?” Matsuda laughs a little, sounds nervous. Lawliet turns his head to the side, lets his hair cover his cheekbones, halfway graceful.

“It’s kind of weird.”

“How so?  I don’t think so.  Not weird at all.”

“Do you ever get the feeling…” Aizawa trails off. “The feeling that we’re missing something?”

“Not really,” Matsuda says, too quickly. The words spill out of him like an accident, like the scene of a car crash.  “What do you want to get for lunch?  We could go out somewhere nice today.  I heard there’s a really great place only a block away.”

“Later, maybe.  It’s only ten.  Don’t be an idiot.”

But the reality is that there’s some truth to it. Lawliet finds himself gravitating towards Light’s proximity, sometimes without even noticing. He still rips off little pieces of paper and throws them; sometimes he clinks his spoon against the rim of ice cream cups too loudly and Light looks over, apparently caught in a balance between irritation and amusement. 

Lawliet still avoids speaking to Quillsh. There’s a certain degree of shame both to conversation and silence alike.

Time spins around him so fast that it takes him some time to realize that he’s the only one who isn’t caught up in it. In fact, he’s stopped doing anything at all.

Lost is the word for it, maybe.

_Light Yagami is Kira, but it isn’t enough just to say that._

_Light Yagami is my One, but it’s not enough._

 

* * *

 

 

Light Yagami has freckles all over his hipbones, and slowly Lawliet learns to know them.  Light Yagami unconsciously traces circles into his watch, pushing back his sleeves to run his fingers over the blades of the second and minute and hour hands. It’s a good thing that a glass plate separates his fingers from the metaphysical manifestation of time, otherwise they’d all be sliced into bits.

Sometimes, Light wants to ride the elevator to the top floor of the building – Lawliet obliges.  They stand on the balcony of one of the unused office spaces, a room haunted only by the fact that it will never be worth anything useful. The nights are often thick and warm and humid, and strands of Lawliet’s hair stick to the back of his neck. They watch sunsets often.

_How many sunsets are left?_

 

* * *

 

 

_I don’t love him.  I don’t love him.  I don’t love him._

_I can’t love him.  Half the time, we don't even speak._

_But…_

_Light Yagami does have a brilliant mind._

 

* * *

 

 

_I was lonely before I met you, Light._

_There’s no point in denying that._

_It’s why I stopped wearing gloves. It’s why I shook your hand. I was careless, but deliberately so._

_I wanted to find you.  I wanted it to be you._

_I want you._

_But I need Kira to come back._


	17. The Corners of the Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dye is a means of protection. It conceals even more truths, even from themselves. It’s a bitter reality that is too sharp and is honest only in its capacity for hiding things. With each deft stroke of his fingers, Lawliet covers more of Light’s hair, erases more of – if he’s honest – one of the only truths that matters to him anymore.

 

_(Whispers again):  
_ _In the room the women come and go  
_ _Talking of Michaelangelo._

 

 

They don’t speak, as they get ready in the morning. They rarely do.

Lawliet stares at his reflection in the mirror, intensely regarding the grey hairs on the side of his head. He frowns, and he sees a handful of wrinkles on his forehead.  It shouldn’t be happening this fast, but he can still cover it if he messes with his hair in the proper way.  He’ll have to re-dye it again soon.

_Soichiro still doesn’t know.   He may, soon enough._

When he looks down, he imagines his hands are stained with invisible blood.  He knows they are.

He glances sideways at Light, who’s brushing his teeth at the other side of the sink, his mouth full of toothpaste. Light catches his glance and flashes him a close-lipped smile, rolling his eyes slightly as he looks away as if to say nothing other than, of course.

Light must know what he’s thinking, but he refuses to display fear, only determination.  Not during the daytime, at least.  He’s woken up in the middle of the night crying more than once, but never seems to remember it when he’s conscious.

It’s just another reality they face.

Between them, the handcuffs sway and gently knock against the countertops.  Lawliet sighs, and almost leans down to sit on the bathroom floor, waiting for Light to finish.  He’s tired of standing; his legs don’t feel the quite the same as they used to.  He never tells Quillsh as much – wouldn’t want him to worry.

He’s leaning down when, suddenly, Light is standing in front of him within split moments, grabbing his collar and pulling him up. 

“What're you doing?” he says softly, almost with apparent genuine concern.

“Sitting down, Light,” Lawliet says flatly. “Waiting.”

_I am depressed, Light. It’s a secret._

Amber eyes meet deep silver, and Lawliet fights the urge to look away.  He’d never look away.

_I am depressed, Light, because I am here and you are here._

Light flashes him a bright smile, apparently done brushing his teeth.

_I am depressed, Light, because I’m losing my case.  I am dying for you and I am unable to finish my last case because you are everything I wanted and didn’t need._

“Ready for today, Ryuzaki?” Light asks, releasing his grip on Lawliet’s shirt and instead casting a quick glance at the mirror to smooth his hair.  “Maybe today we’ll catch Kira.”  He jangles the handcuffs, as if to suggest victory when all they represent is defeat.

_I am..... depressed, Light, because I wanted you to be Kira.  I wanted you._

Something pulls at his stomach, the way it only does for Light.  It was just as Beyond Birthday had warned him in a dream so long ago.

_I am depressed, Light Yagami.  I think it’s possible I may love you.  I shouldn’t. That’s a secret._

 

* * *

 

 

Matsuda has bandages all over his hands from papercuts. He’s caught in a state of perpetual frowning, worry lines creasing his forehead.  Aizawa, to the contrary, is caught in a state of what appears to be perpetual irritation.  It builds and builds; he comes into the office with bruises above his one eyebrow, like someone had thrown something at him.  Lawliet can tell that Soichiro notices, but doesn’t say much on the subject.

“L – I mean, Ryuzaki,” says Matsuda, coming behind Lawliet’s chair the same morning and lightly placing his hand on the spine of it. Lawliet is abruptly reminded of the night when they had staged the execution, Matsuda gripping his shoulder with the implicit and quiet terror to ask, _this is your One hanging in the balance. Why are you doing this?_   “Ryuzaki, I want to help. How can I help you?”

“You really want to help?” 

Light picks his head up from the desk to look, eyes darting between the pair.

“Yes!” 

There’s a faint sheen of sweat on Matsuda’s forehead.

“Then… Can you get me a cup of coffee?” Lawliet asks.

And there, the heaviness in the break of silence – the pause.  Light looks back at his papers, stifling his reaction and his expression flat as usual as he flips a pen around in his hand, letting it dance between his fingers. Matsuda sighs for a moment, but still murmurs an affirmation that he’ll return quickly.

It’s the usual pattern.

 

* * *

 

 

“Light.”

Lawliet speaks smoothly, his voice cutting through the air with a gentle slice at the edge.  The others have left, and it’s only the two of them and the chain rapping slightly against the desk.  Lawliet is at his computer, Light at his, and the physical space between them is filled with things unspoken.

“Ryuzaki?”

“Light, do you have any holes in your memory?”

Light stares at him, his eyes opening wider ever so slightly as if he’d been caught off guard.  He sets his pen on the desk in an almost graceful manner, and bows his head – smiling somewhat.  “I suppose you could say that,” he says.  “It’s like we said before.  I don’t remember how I met Misa.”

“You were Kira,” Lawliet says flatly. It’s somehow like he’s speaking to himself, and Light happens to be the incidental audience – a reassurance of a sort that he’s justified in pushing away his personal feelings. “But it’s not enough to say that.  We need more proof.”

Light frowns at him, pauses.  “I remember meeting you,” he says plainly. “I shook your hand at the entrance ceremony.”

“Ah, yes.  That’s correct.”

“I remember coming home.  I found a grey hair.”  He looks away from Lawliet, staring at the empty dark grey matte of the desk. “To tell you the truth, I think I was angry.  But it’s hazy, and I’m not completely sure.”

“It makes sense, given that you are, in fact, Kira,” Lawliet says evenly, disclosing nothing of his own sentence. “Would anyone with a god complex want to have their life taken away so soon?  I’d imagine it didn’t follow neatly with the rest of your plans, Light.”

_It didn’t follow mine, either.  Or…_

“I’m not angry about it now,” Light says too quickly, his eyes flicking back up.  “I have nothing but admiration for you, Ryuzaki.  I’m not Kira.  I want to catch Kira with you.”  He’s wringing his hands, tucking his fingers together into a knot as he speaks.  “I don’t love being called guilty all the time for crimes I know I didn’t commit, but I’m not angry like you think. If anything, it’s upsetting to see you so discouraged from working recently.  I want to prove my innocence to you.”

_Ah, so he’s noticed.  It’s convenient for him to say these things._

_Of course he’s angry. He’s merely adept at concealing it._

“You’re upset because I made you go through all this trouble,” Lawliet drawls, “when there’s a chance that I won’t be satisfied until I prove that you, Light Yagami, my One, are Kira. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be immortal.”  He raises an eyebrow.   “Mmm.  Even so, I could say the same for you.”

“You’re the greatest detective in the world,” Light shoots back evenly, not missing a beat, raising his voice.  “You need to keep working.  You’re the only one who can solve this case, and we’re both running out of time.”

“I’m only running out of time because of you, Light,” Lawliet says.  “That’s the very principle of irony.  My relationship with you is a paradox, and for you to merely exist at all…. Ah, you see, I’m running out of time to catch you, because of you.”  He chews on his thumb lightly, allowing the words to register.

“Ryuzaki.”  Light turns away, allowing his hair to spill over his eyes, hiding his gaze. “Stop this.  We have to keep working.  You owe it to the world to catch Kira, and I know you can.” He pauses.  “And we can do this together, you know.  If we argue, it’s just what Kira wants.  Remember who the real enemy is.”

Lawliet glances at him at the same time as he glances over.  Silver and gold eyes, locked in the room of deep and monotonous grey, a space somehow too small to keep them and they, somehow larger than they were before. 

_I think I may be falling in love with you._

_I could actually fall for you._

_What’s more important – saving you, or baiting and waiting for Kira to come back?_

_What’s more important – being right, or being with you?_

It’s clear enough, from Light’s perspective. If he can prove his love for his One, then he’ll be saved on a variety of levels: from himself, if Kira comes back, and from Lawliet’s determined persecution. 

_But it’s not that simple._

_I have never been wrong, so you must be Kira.  Amane’s love almost confirms it.  Love is damning in more ways than one._

“I care about you, Ryuzaki,” Light says, a tinge of desperation entering his voice as he pleads, ever so softly, to the man of stone sitting across from him.  He reaches across the table, places his fingers overtop of Lawliet’s and strokes his knuckles with his thumb.

Lawliet merely turns away.

_I care about you, too –_

_Light Yagami._

 

* * *

 

 

Light Yagami is adept at pinpointing what his audience wants – that’s all.  It’s the key mark of someone who is too skilled at stroking someone’s back with his words for comfort, all the while brandishing a knife tucked so carefully into his own hand that it disappears with his own blood.  That’s why he’s good at getting what he wants. That’s how he is Kira.

Lawliet tells himself this when Light curls on the bed late at night, staring at the ceiling wordlessly.  He watches as his suspect appeases Misa during their weekly tea time sessions – every time they leave, she asks him for a kiss, and he obliges.

One time, she pulls on Light’s sleeve, visibly digging her fingernails into his hand.  Lawliet almost bristles as he watches her smile mischievously, beckon for him to lean his head closer to hers, and instead of kissing him she ducks her lips close to his ear and mouths something.  He watches as Light pulls away, seemingly abashed or at the least flustered, and says nothing while she giggles.

“What did she say to you, Light?” Lawliet asks as they walk into the hallway, away from the champagne bubbles of laughter echoing from Misa’s lips.  His hands are cold, and he stops dead in his tracks.

 _This could be it_. _They shouldn’t have been allowed to speak that closely together._

Light narrows his eyes, presses his lips thinner together as he watches Lawliet hunch over, tucking his hands into his pockets like usual.  “You don’t trust me,” he notes, the smallest trace of sadness implicit in his voice. “She asked to sleep with me.”

“Ah.  Sleep in a bed?” Lawliet asks, feigning ignorance to hide the uncomfortable jolt the realization sends through him.

“Ryuzaki.”

 There’s something honest about the way Light says it – it seems genuine, not as though she whispered something about plans to him.  He’d have to ask Quillsh to check the audio files from the cameras in the room later, just to be sure. 

“She’s very serious about you.” Lawliet slowly starts to walk, feeling the handcuffs more heavily around his wrist than usual. Silver bracelets were meant for criminals, not for someone glued to their One – it may as well have been a reminder of his death sentence.  “You can imagine the reason for my suspicion.”

“She wouldn’t have so attached to anyone who wasn’t her One,” Light finishes, a bit heavily.  “Unless I were Kira, and she felt the same devotion, but she doesn’t remember why.”

“Precisely, Light.”

“I’m not serious about her.”

“But you’d be adept at tricking her into suiting your purposes, Light.  She adores you. It’s so straightforward, I almost don’t want to believe it’s so easy.”

Light pauses, stops in his steps as though his shoes had suddenly become too heavy.  “Do you love me, Ryuzaki?” he asks, his voice softer.

_For even Lucifer disguises himself as an angel of light…_

“No.  And in any case, that’s irrelevant to the question of you being Kira,” Lawliet says, somewhat more coldly than intended, pulling on the handcuffs. “We have to return to headquarters. Surely you understand.”

_But you know I do.  We can pretend. Are you going to kill me for it? You’re my weakness._

He pretends to not see the ghostly image of Light’s face falling ever so slightly – the charade slightly chipped away.

 

* * *

 

 

_She wants to sleep with Light.  Not just sleep with him – but, sleep with him. Hold onto his body, make it her own. Run her hands along his stomach, kiss his neck._

Light wakes Lawliet in the middle of the night, perhaps unintentionally, from kicking during his nightmares. He’s saying her name, saying no repeatedly, his voice cracking somewhat. He pushes out his arms as though he’s shoving someone away.  It’s ironic enough that Light’s dreams as nightmares are a reality for Lawliet.

“Light,” Lawliet whispers softly, pushing his back against the headboard and arching slightly.  “Light.”  He presses a hand on his shoulder, trying to draw him from the recesses of his own mind.

“Light Yagami.”

Startled, Light wakes.

He looks scared, when he first opens his eyes – but he looks at Lawliet, and the fear seems to melt off of him.

“I don’t want to have sex with her,” he mumbles, nearly inarticulate.

Almost all of his hair looks silver in the moonlight.

_We can pretend._

“Ah?  Is that so?  Not even for the sake of potentially solving the case?  She’ll trust you, Light.”

“I…don’t want to sleep with anyone.”

“You’re in a bed with me, Light.” The statement is the verbal equivalent of throwing small pieces of paper or chewing too loudly, just to garner a particular type of attention.

“Not quite that….” He narrows his eyes, and Lawliet fights to remain impartially unamused by Light’s fatigue with perpetual literalism. “You’re different, anyway.”

“It was just a nightmare,” Lawliet says dismissively, ignoring the skip in his heartbeat at the word _different_. “You should sleep. Maybe… Ah, maybe we’ll catch Kira later today.  You won't be able to catch Kira if you're not well rested.”

“You’re right.”

Lawliet tells himself he wouldn’t be jealous if he slept with her.  It would matter nothing to him, even if Light were his One.  Light wasn’t his possession, nor was he Light’s.

But still… Something whispers in the back of his mind.

_Was this what they had all spoken of? Something beautiful? It just felt like something broken._

If he were going to fall in love, he’d had six hundred years to pick anyone else.

But, Light Yagami…

It was always going to be Light Yagami.

_Whether or not he were Kira._

They were the summaries of everything they’d done up until this point.  He’s losing his case, he’s losing his life - and gaining something inexplicable only by entirely submitting to losing.

But, tonight, Light rests his head on Lawliet’s lap.

Lawliet bites his lip, uncertain of what to do at first when Light curls up to his chest, closing his eyes and apparently resting to sleep.  He settles at first for not breathing, only submitting to the need for air when he began to feel dizzy.  Light’s hair brushes gently against his stomach, soft against the fabric of his shirt.

Carefully, Lawliet lays a hand on Light’s back.

His mind races with knowledge of anatomy and physiology – the names of all the muscles, visualizing the way blood was pumping its way through Light’s veins – but it doesn’t take him long to realize that his approach, drowning in details, was again obstructing the thought that he might need to, in fact, breathe.

_Can I tell you a secret, Kira? I wanted to meet you._

He bites his lip.

_Can I tell you a secret, Light Yagami? I want to love you. I am scared._

_Can I tell you a secret, whoever you are? I am certain I am supposed to die with you._

If he looks at his hands for too long, they look like dust, and nothing more.

_I love you._

He doesn’t sleep all night.

 

* * *

 

 

Light Yagami has the most beautiful mind in Japan. It’s been centuries, and Lawliet has never noted anyone quite as sharp.  Even Deneuve wasn’t quite as bright as him – even Beyond Birthday hadn’t been as quick. Not all soulmates had things in common, but Light’s intellect – the way his eyes jump from one scene to another, racing and calculating, is nothing unlike Lawliet’s own deductive capabilities.

Light never tires.  His enthusiasm is the antithesis to Lawliet’s sleepless, inert apathy. Undoubtedly it stems from the basis of being the accused, of being the man supposedly in love and about to be burned at the stake.  Light’s intentions are unclear, because it’s impossible to know how much he keeps hidden – but his actions are straightforward enough.

_If I solve this case, I die.  If Kira comes back, I die. It’s a race against time._

He narrows his eyes, craves strawberries.

_Why us?_

_We could’ve done so much, together._

_If I ever found him._

The combination of toxic elements shaping this poison, this curse of the sunlight that dawns on him clicking at the keys on his computer and finds Light Yagami with the halo of reddish-brown hair fading to mud more with every day on the pillow.  Lawliet feels sick to his stomach at the thought of Light crushed in a puddle at the floor of some prison, and he distracts himself by slamming his fingers onto the keyboard until Light slowly blinks awake, reaches out a hand, and grabs Lawliet’s wrist, rubbing small circles into the pulse of it.

_Please._

 

* * *

 

 

Still nothing new for the case, as days melt to weeks. It’s infuriating for everyone else, but an interesting philosophical predicament for Lawliet to stew over.

People die every day.  Their hearts clutch up and die with a fizz and never let go of the emptiness leaking out, and no one knows how.  Lawliet catches himself tilting his head to the side, watching Light’s chest sometimes, and almost bites his lip open until he reminds himself to concentrate on sweets.  They purge the bitterness from his throat that almost compels him to heave all over the desk.

_I, too, am going to die._

_What does it feel like, to die?  To fade into nothing?_

Worrying about it will do no good, but it doesn’t stop him from wondering, sometimes more apathetically than others.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet closes his eyes one night, when it’s late and everyone else has gone to their respective floors and Aizawa took the train home and wrung his hands into his suitcase – and when he opens them again there’s a jacket around his arms, taking the makeshift form of a blanket.

“Ryuzaki.”  Light’s voice is soft; everything is hazy, like images from a watercolor painting. Even the sound of the handcuffs ringing against the desk is gentle.  “You fell asleep.”

“Ah?”  He blinks his eyes open, stuttering into consciousness and catching sight almost immediately of Light’s form bathed in golds and reds.  “What’s this?”

“Watari brought it for you,” Light says, his voice unusually quiet and almost warm.  “I kept working.  I think we’re close to reaching a breakthrough.  I’m optimistic.”

“Naturally,” says Lawliet as he pushes off from the desk, reaching long fingers to hold onto the jacket.  “Did you sleep?”

“No.  I stayed awake all night.”

“You should sleep.  I can bring a laptop to bed and work from there.”

“Fine.  I’ll give you my notes.”  Light smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Shortly after Light falls asleep in their bedroom, Lawliet calls Quillsh from his cellphone and whispers very quietly into the speaker.

“Thank you for bringing the jacket, Watari.”

“Jacket?”

“I fell asleep this morning at the desk. Light said you brought a jacket.”

Quillsh pauses, and the resultant silence is heavy.

“I didn’t bring a jacket.”  He falters.  “Ryuzaki…”

_Oh._

_Light was lying.... But why?_

_Kira is a liar, and so is Light.  Even so…_

“What is it?”

“Are you…are you fine?”

“What do you mean by saying _fine_?”

“How are things with Light?  Do you…” Quillsh’s voice cuts off, like he shattered a glass with the slippery edge of his own words.

“Do I what, Watari?”

“Are you…impartial?”  He clears his throat.

“As impartial as ever,” Lawliet replies evenly, the smoothness of his voice covering any trace of the unevenness gathering at the pit of his stomach.  “You know the way I do things.  But this is neither the time, nor the place.”

“Naturally.  And if you ever need anything...” Quillsh says, but Lawliet hangs up directly at the close of the words.  It sounds too much like a ghost is speaking to him, or like Quillsh already considers him dead – something about how if you spoke to a ghost, you became one, too. It’s the kind of phenomenon he couldn’t articulate but feels opening wounds in his skin that he was determined to keep shut.

It was Light who brought had the jacket from the beginning.  Come to think of it, he had been wearing it earlier – stated it was a little chilly in headquarters and he wanted something to keep him warm.  It had been loosely wrapped around his shoulders and not tied up in the knots of the handcuffs.  The jacket still lies at the end of the bed, and Lawliet reaches for it, tentatively brushing his fingers against the smooth fabric of the sleeves.

He grabs it and, without being conscious of himself, suddenly holds onto it so tightly that he can barely feel his nails or fingerprints. He tucks it into his arms, buries his nose in the collar and wholly ignores the way his eyes abruptly sting, ever so secretly. Secretly –

_I don’t want to die._

_I don’t want to be alone again._

Lawliet hears the sound of someone breathing in slowly, deeply, somewhere far off.  He doesn’t realize it until he feels a hand very deliberately brush against his knee, reach out and wrap warm fingers around his own –

The sound of breathing belonged to him, and it was Light who noticed.  Light, who was still awake after all, was here.

Lawliet tightens his grip.  Later, he’ll pretend he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

_Does Light love me? Genuinely?  Could he?_

_Has he ever felt something genuinely a day in his life?_

_Has he ever told the truth?_

_Why does he have to do this?_

_Why did he have to become Kira?_

 

* * *

 

 

The same day, Lawliet is unusually irritable. He finds himself incapable of listening to Matsuda, and no amount of coffee seems to quell the edge. He flicks his fingers over the seams of his shirt and pulls at loose strings, the unusual amount of energy in his body somehow frustrating him.

“Are you alright, Ryuzaki?” Aizawa asks quietly, when Soichiro and Matsuda leave to find something to eat for lunch.

“Ah, yes.  Perfectly fine,” Lawliet replies, with a bit of a sarcastic edge nipping at the words.  Light looks up, raises an eyebrow, and casts his eyes downward again.

“You look more tired than usual,” Aizawa says, somewhat defensively.  “And so do you, Light. This case must be taking a toll on you. Did you two fight, or something?”

“I’m fine,” Light says dismissively without glancing away from his paperwork. 

Lawliet runs a finger around the edge of his coffee mug and turns away, hunching over more dramatically in the chair. “Would it be so unusual if we did fight, Mr. Aizawa?” he asks, swaying back and forth ever so slightly. “He is Kira, after all, and I am L.”

“You’re Ryuzaki.”

“And Light Yagami is Kira.”

“You don’t have any proof,” Light interjects flatly, just before the pen breaks with sudden fervor in his fingers. Ink suddenly spills over everything, dyeing the papers a deep black and Light’s hands are instantly covered in the incarnation of midnight.

“Damn,” Aizawa mutters, the word a soft hiss. “I’ll run to the bathroom.” He leaves a bit too hurriedly.

“Kira,” Lawliet says bitterly, throwing Light something of a dirty glance.  Inexplicably, he seems to lose control of the filter over his words, and he’s filled with a strange anger.   There’s a weight almost physically nesting itself in his chest.

“Stop that,” Light says, eyes flashing dark. He throws the broken pen at Lawliet as it drips with liquid night sky.  “Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean you can suddenly blame me for everything. At least I’m working.”  The bleeding ink leaves a noticeable stain that spreads from the pure white of the long-sleeved shirt and runs onto the pocket and zipper of Lawliet’s jeans.

“Kira,” Lawliet says again, flicking the pen off his leg and onto the floor, watching it roll from the corner of his vision. “Physically demonstrating anger towards your One.  That raises the likelihood percentage of you being Kira, Light, from fifty percent to sixty percent.”

“Stop.”  Light is suddenly close, his hands on Lawliet’s shoulders and his gaze filled with a veiled shadow.  His hands are too warm, too dry.  “Do you honestly think I could be Kira, Ryuzaki?  I’m your One. Do you really think I’m the kind of person that could just turn his back on you?”

“Yes,” Lawliet murmurs back, the word filled with as much venom as he could muster. 

_That’s why I…_

They’re suddenly lunging at each other, and Light moves forward as if to punch him, his hand balled into an ugly fist and his eyes filled with anger – Lawliet raises his foot, as if in preparation to spin and kick him – when Light suddenly stops.  He drops his hand to his side, suddenly limp, an unusual expression dawning on him.  In one swift motion, he raises his left hand and brushes it against Lawliet’s cheek as though the touch of both their skin was porcelain.

“What are we doing?” he mutters to himself, eyes searching Lawliet’s.  “Ryuzaki, you need to sleep. You’ve gone too long without it and it makes you irritable.  I’ll catch Kira myself if I have to, and don’t say anything about me throwing myself into a jail cell because we both know it’s not like that,” he adds, words spilling out fast and unusually lacking rhythm for him.  He sounds almost panicked.  “Even if it was me, it’s not me anymore. I’ll catch him for you. I want to work with you. I’ll say it as many times as I have to.”

Lawliet’s stomach unwillingly erupts into porous moths, the invisible but all-too-real gossamer wings brushing against the close inside of his skin.  He’s tempted to close his eyes and lean his cheek against Light’s hand, but he’s frozen.

_Kiss me._

It’s as though the thought manifests itself on the outside clearly as on the inside, and Light visibly changes. They’re so close Lawliet can even note the way his pupils are suddenly larger, his lips parted ever so slightly, the skin of his cheekbones faintly flushed a subtle pink and there’s an abrupt pull in Lawliet’s stomach.  Carefully, Lawliet raises a hand, places it at the back of Light’s neck.

_Desire – a noun. A strong feeling of wanting something, or wishing for something to happen._

In this instance, it takes form only in the word Lawliet utters in a whisper from the back of his throat –

“Please.”

_Please give up. Please don’t let Kira come back. Please kiss me. Please fall for…_

Light leans forward ever so slightly, as though he’s going to brush Lawliet's cheek with a quick kiss.   _Or he’s going to whisper something important, or otherwise, just as long as_  –

The sound of the door opening sends them both crashing back, each kicking off the chair of the other to roll farther apart. Aizawa stands in the threshold, eyes open wide, bunches of paper towels wrapped in his hands.  One of them flutters to the ground, dropped in surprise. The pen is still bleeding profusely onto the floor.

“Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Aizawa,” Lawliet says smoothly, recovering quickly and brushing something invisible off his shirt – his heart carefully slides back down from his throat to his chest. “Light asked me to look into his eyes and see if he was Kira.”

“Ryuzaki says yes,” Light adds, his voice equally even, expression polished as ever within seconds.  Seconds are valuable currency. “But we know that isn’t true.”

Aizawa’s eyes flick between the two of them, seeing the ink on Light’s shirt and more still of it on Lawliet’s pants, calculating. It looks even from a distance like there’s a vein protruding near his temple, and his eyebrows are creasing at his forehead in that foreboding way that says, _I’m about to be very angry_.

Lawliet is stone. _Aizawa suspects something.  He did before, too.  He spoke to Matsuda about it._

“Fine,” Aizawa says after a breath of hesitation, visibly gritting his teeth into his jaw.  “I brought you these.”  He paces forward, steps long and tense, and drops the paper towels onto the desk. When he walks away, Lawliet thinks he hears him muttering something about _Ryuzaki and his damn methods_.

Light stares at the paper towels, his hands empty, his eyes flicking to Lawliet.  Whatever he’d meant to say only moments earlier is visibly lost from his expression. Perhaps less lost and more concealed.

_Damn._

 

* * *

 

 

“I told you, Ryuzaki.  I’m not Kira.”

Lawliet feels Light’s back pressed against his own. The moonlight is pouring in through the window and bleaching everything silver, so they are nothing more than different shades of the same night.  If he concentrates, Lawliet can feel each protrusion of Light’s spine against his – if he concentrates, he can feel the way time rushes past him and whispers through his hair and kisses his skin.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice, Light. But it may surprise you to hear that your incessant proclamations of that fact do not, in fact, clear your name in any greater capacity.  I’ve told you before. I don’t take recommendations from suspects. Particularly not after today’s incident.”

_As if the first part were all that had happened._

Light sighs loudly, and flips over onto his back – Lawliet can sense the shift in the mattress.  He imagines Light running a hand across his forehead and then tucking it behind his head onto the pillow, closing his eyes but with no intention of sleeping.  It’s far too bright in the room, and the curtains work in no helpful capacity.

“Go to sleep, already, Ryuzaki. You move too much."  He pauses.  "Not to mention you haven’t slept in days.”

“I am not tired.  Is Light tired?”

“Not yet.  I’m thinking too much.”

_About what?_

_About me?_

_Do you love me?_

Lawliet bites his lip, and closes his eyes, the weight of their lids far too heavy. 

_Perhaps I am, in fact, tired._

“Are you sure you aren’t tired?” Light asks quietly, leaning over.  Lawliet opens his eyes, altogether not alarmed to see Light’s bright amber eyes peering at him, his face so close. “You need to rest, too.”

“I am rather fine,” Lawliet snaps in turn, his tone a smooth and unbreaking lilt as he flips onto his back.  Something about Light’s presence compels him to act in such strange ways – speaking flippantly and carelessly, without any regard for the tone of his words.  It’s as though he loses control, in a sense – the usual guise of calm shed late at night, when he’s far too tired from days of staying awake and losing himself in evidence that threatens to bury him as if in a grave.

_As if in a grave._

The stakes of this case have always been rather morbid.

“You’re tired,” Light says calmly. “Here.” 

He sits up straight, stretching his legs out in front of him, and pats his lap.

Lawliet stares at him, narrowing his eyes. “Light, don’t be ridiculous.”

_Light is rather too kind today, indeed._

_Why is he so kind?  A disguise, to see if he can get closer to L?_

“I won’t be able to sleep unless you stop twitching,” Light says, somewhat indignantly.  “You may as well try.”

“There is only about a two-percent chance this will assist my ability to sleep.”

“And you don’t seem to be one to dismiss possibilities for small percentages.” 

Light smiles a little sadly, bowing his head slightly.

He, too, has dark circles under his eyes.

But he’s different from before.

The silver at the sides of his temples glows, and it’s as though they’re inside a clock, their hands and legs and arms all mechanisms they cannot even begin to fathom.  They are all too abstract, placed into concrete bodies.

Reluctantly, Lawliet leans closer to Light, laying his head in the spot Light had indicated and curling, somewhat unavoidably, against Light’s chest. 

“This is absolutely absurd,” he murmurs, closing his eyes all the same.

Absurd that he feels more like he’s come home than he has in any other time during six hundred years.  Absurd that he’s let himself fall at the first opportunity, falling from grace like Lucifer.  He resents this part of himself – the part that allows him to do things like this. To be human.

_Light is Kira._

_He must be. I’m never wrong. I’ve never been wrong, not once in six hundred years._

_But…_

He doesn’t hear Light’s reply, if there is any.

Time slips from his fingers; an unknown amount passes. His mind is all hazy static when he feels something against his forehead – like someone pushed his hair back softly and pressed their lips against his skin.  Hands stroke his hair, whisper unintelligible things. Gentle, sweet. He shivers, and presses closer to the touch.  It’s a protective gesture.

And, then, softly –

“I don’t want to die.”

Softer still –

“Please save me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet's dreams are hazy, like he’s walking through the many paths of his past, each decade another footprint falling from his shoes as he steps forward.  He blinks and sees the streets of old Paris bleed into old crimson, into the bars on a jail cell holding Beyond Birthday and those gauze-empty mirror eyes. He blinks again and sees Naomi Misora, glaring at him that time he’d tried to see in her person – just that once – and his hand brushed hers and it became apparent that they both had years of agelessness left to go.

_Time trained me for this – for being made of stone._

Time plays cruel jokes always. He thinks of Deneuve, burning to death and thinks that sometimes he still feels like he’s about to incinerate at any moment.

Time plays cruel jokes. 

_If I had forever to prove Light is Kira, I could._

_If I had forever, I’m not sure that I would._

_Light is Kira.  But....I..._

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet’s dreams are hazy until they aren’t, and he’s caught in a vivid moment of imagining that Light is awake next to him, and he imagines he’s awake too – but he’s really just swept underneath the waves of _maybe this or that_. His tongue feels heavy, like gunshots, when he visualizes flipping onto his side.  Light Yagami is staring back with eyes that are maybe masterfully choreographed as such, but filled with something soft regardless.

“Light.”  He hears himself speak, the voltage of his words clinging with him to the bed, nails curling into the sheets and wishing he were touching Light instead. Wishing so vividly, in fact, he can’t help his lips from parting ever so slightly.

“Ryuzaki.”

Ever so slowly, Light curls closer to Lawliet, lays an arm across his chest and curls his fingers gently at the base of Lawliet’s ribcage.

_This is a dream. Wake up.  Another dream._

When Lawliet reaches up to tentatively brush Light’s hair behind his ear, the softness of his skin is almost entirely like the gentle smoothness of rose petals.  _Blue roses_. He feels that perhaps he should say something sarcastic – something witty, caustic as it should be by all accounts – but he’s at a loss and everything is roses.

This Light, the one he doesn’t know, leans down and kisses the hollow of his neck, where his heartbeat flutters wings like caged butterflies, and Lawliet’s skin is suddenly warm with the immediacy of it. Desire carves new tides into his hands, if indulgently so.

 _It’s been six hundred years and I want you so much_.

_I could never base actual judgments on feeling alone.  But here…_

_ _

_Artwork by[Zenthisoror](http://zenthisoror.tumblr.com/). Do not repost without permission._

 

 

“My real name is L Lawliet,” he whispers into the night, as Light trails more kisses along his chest.  “I’ve been alive for six hundred years.”

He gasps into wakefulness as Light raises his head from where he’s pushed Lawliet’s shirt up ever so slightly to expose a thin strip of skin.  Light Yagami smiles, and disappears into dust.

 

* * *

 

 

And when Lawliet wakes, he’s still lying on Light’s lap. He blinks, unmoving as his own gasps fill the caverns of his lungs, seeking before moving to assess the damage – or testing the durability of his own nerves. One of his hands is curled closely to his own heart, and the other…

The other lies on Light’s leg.  Light’s hand is curled firmly over his, their pointer fingers tightly intertwined.

A strange pang hits Lawliet’s stomach, and he flinches.

_I should move. But…_

He notices the daylight streaming in through the windows last of all, peculiarly, and feels the fabric of his own shirt rubbing uncomfortably against his skin, like it’s peeling from him.  He casts a glance upwards, to see Light, and is taken aback by the way the shadows from his eyelashes cast patterns all over his cheekbones.

Was this would it be like, if they had been born in any other world but this one? Or born in any other time?  Would they wake up every day, either together or apart, and scour the world and the folds of time to find each other?  Would they lie in the amaranth just outside, basking in the sun, or otherwise travel the world to find whatever was missing?

He can’t imagine another world – one in which people were simply allowed to live and to die without finding their soulmates, or at least being prompted by the challenge.  A challenge of do-or-die is not unfamiliar to him, but this is the only challenge that has directly put his life in jeopardy.

Something dangerous whispers in his mind that he knows, in this world or the next, there would be no different ending than this morning. There was really no other way things could turn out differently for the two of them.

He’d be damned to finding Light Yagami in any other world, regardless of how many times all of those worlds crashed down on his head.

Maybe this is the ideal crime Beyond had always spoken of. A crime he had no control over, and one he had no way of fixing.

Slowly, slowly, Lawliet pulls his fingers out from Light’s and moves to a sitting position. 

He’s most eager to simply move from the bed for as much of a radius as the handcuffs will allow, but something stops him.

He glances again at Light’s face, peaceful and resting in sleep.  His lips are parted ever so slightly, and it’s like innocence is written over his features – like a confession.

Inexplicably, Lawliet finds himself leaning forward. Careful not to make any quick movements, he presses his lips to Light’s cheek, in a sort of protective motion.

_I haven’t forgotten what you said last night. I heard you._

_Maybe that’s why I dreamed of…_

Together, their skin is warm and dry. It’s like writing poetry for the sun, when he’d never had any use for either, before.

It’s over within a moment, but he feels something strange emanating at every point; like the haze is giving way to a sort of clarity he never knew that he hadn’t been adorned with. 

He pulls away, the soft rustling of the handcuffs providing something of a sinister background to an otherwise calm scene. He releases his breath without knowing he’d been holding it, and when he inhales again, he imagines that he’s glowing.

He’s moving away from the bed, beginning to climb off, when he hears, softly –

“Good morning, Ryuzaki.”

He turns.

Light’s smirking at him, his eyes dancing with some sleepy sort of entertainment.

Lawliet’s cheeks burn red.

“Ah… Good morning, Light.”

His hands aren’t shaking.  His hands never shake.   But…

_What the hell kind of a game is he playing?_

 

* * *

 

 

Discreetly, Quillsh brings back hair dye.   Red-brown, and the darkest of black ink.   He doesn’t speak a word of it to Lawliet, but instead leaves it on the bed, so that when Lawliet and Light retire from working at headquarters during the day the first thing they see is the small lump of the rectangular boxes sinking into the sheets. Light’s hand twitches towards the bag, but he lets Lawliet grab for it first. 

“Shall we?” Lawliet says flatly, his stomach leaping to his throat, even if he’d never show it.

“I suppose so,” Light says with the faintest of smiles, “if you don’t want my dad to find out about any of this.” He raises a hand to the back of his neck.

“That situation is less than ideal,” Lawliet notes mildly.  “At least at the moment. Although it’s worth noting that Matsuda is aware of the circumstances.”

“Is that so?  Has he kept it a secret, I suppose?”

“Presumably.”  Lawliet holds the box between a thumb and a forefinger, studying the directions on the back.  He glances over and sees Light staring at him, a moment frozen by their eye contact that passes quickly when Light glances away.  Lawliet knows he doesn’t imagine the blush on Light’s cheekbones. “Mmm.  Aizawa is rather observant.”

“You’re right,” says Light.  He pauses, eyes flicking between Lawliet and the boxes of hair dye. “We’ll just have to resolve the case quickly, and then…”

He trails off.

_Then what?_

 

* * *

 

 

“I am quite capable of doing this myself, Light.”

“I’m sure.  But it doesn’t hurt to have help sometimes.”

Light massages the dye into Lawliet’s hair, tracing his fingers most carefully around the spots close to his temples. Lawliet sits with his jaw clenched as tightly as he can manage, face stone, attempting to refrain from closing his eyes or leaning into the touch, or allowing his face to burn pink – or otherwise doing anything to relinquish any facet of control.

_We conceal each other._

_Perhaps he and I aren’t so different after all._

_We’re both monsters with masks._

“That should be fine,” Light says when he’s finished, stripping the gloves from his hands to throw into the trashcan. As Lawliet turns, he sees Light wrinkle his nose at the sharp, caustic scent of the dye.  “Would you mind helping with mine?”

“It's no trouble, Light.”

Lawliet grabs the box from where it sits at the edge of the bathtub, peels the lid open and sifts through the contents to find the plastic gloves.  He glances up and sees Light watching him, eyes large and filled with something untraceable. “You’ve been staring at me all day,” Lawliet says before he can think better of it, a bit dryly. “Is there something wrong? Is it the way my hair is sticking up currently?  It’s always been rather messy, I’m afraid I can’t help it much.  Nor do I care much for such things.”  The words fall out of his mouth into a messy pile.

“No,” says Light, smiling slightly and turning his face towards the shower.  The chain between them sways unevenly. “I was just thinking that you’re beautiful, Ryuzaki.”

Lawliet stares, hands clutching the box tightly. “Thank you,” he says, his voice somewhat strangled.  “I think there’s no mistaking Light’s physical beauty.  I’m supposing you’ve had many people interested in you.”  He pauses, thinks of Misa Amane and their occasional meetings for tea. “Likely many who hoped to be your One, or otherwise hoped to engage with you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Light says, dismissively waving a hand.  “People are too easily influenced that way.  It’s unimportant to me.”

Lawliet pulls the tubes of dye out of the box, mixes them steadily.  He keeps his eyes trained carefully on what’s in his hands, but every so often he can’t help glancing over at Light, who is still staring intently – seemingly concentrating as if to remember something long forgotten, but whenever Lawliet looks back at him he averts his gaze as if he were shy.

_It’s a guise. Kira would never be shy; but it does seem rather genuine that Light Yagami is shy as of now._

“It’s ready,” Lawliet says after he’s finished mixing the dyes into a bottle.  “Come here, if you’d like.”

Light obliges and sits in front of Lawliet, exposing the notches of his spine and all the freckles as stars along his back. Lawliet hesitates for a moment, tempted to run his fingers along Light’s skin, but he resists the urge and instead dips his hands with dye.

Dye is a means of protection. It conceals even more truths, even from themselves.  It’s a bitter reality that is too sharp and is honest only in its capacity for hiding things. With each deft stroke of his fingers, Lawliet covers more of Light’s hair, erases more of – if he’s honest – one of the only truths that matters to him anymore. 

It hits Lawliet slowly, and then all at once as he touches Light, fingers buried in the red-brown paint and his legs brushing against the curve of Light's ribcage against his chest.

_I’m in love with him._

_I want him to turn around and kiss me._

But Light doesn’t, and they work in silence as Lawliet finishes painting his masterpiece and they rinse off in the shower, leaving all of their secrets to be drowned through the drain.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, after showering, they watch the sun set. The sun rises and dies every day, but they rarely set aside the time to watch.  Perhaps it reminds Light too much of himself, because the first thing he does is hold his hand up to the light so that it flows around his fingers like water, with his blood palms.  Like he is holding something tangible against the intangible, and Lawliet simply watches, narrowing his eyes.

They sit close to each other on the couch. Lawliet notices with a fair illusion of detachment the way that Light’s arm is pressed tightly to his own, their hands lying close together; he ignores the way that the bullets of his own words choke in his throat, dance like butterflies at the base of his spine.

 _Light Yagami is my One, and I am watching a sunset with him._ He notices objectively that he has started to think of his One in terms of Light Yagami, and not as Kira.  The deception is dangerous, leaves him dizzy but ultimately calm as he grounds himself with his hands.

Neither of them says a word.  They aren’t the types to be inclined to remark about what a beautiful night it is – they’re silent, collectively, until Light suddenly stands, grabbing the chain with him.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, his eyes immediately brightening as he casts a quick glance around the room.

“Light.”   _Kira.  If you want a name game, I can do that, Light._

“Let’s dance.”  Light smiles, tilting his head to the side.  He’s cast in the red of the day fading in through the windows that span the entirety of the wall.  Everything is tired crimson, their words as soft and gossamer as if they’d been crafted from poisoned lace, all breath and no weight and no substance.

Lawliet narrows his eyes, instinctively raising the thumb of his free hand to his lips like a safeguard.  “Dance, Light?” he asks coolly, attempting – and ultimately failing – to conceal the note of his voice that sounds almost childishly excited.  _Ridiculous.  We have a case to solve.  You are a case to solve._

_Why is he being so kind?_

“We can go back to working right after,” Light insists, something hardening in his voice.  “Your computer isn’t going anywhere.”  _Resolve._ He steps forward and, carefully, grabs Lawliet’s hands – his palms are warm and dry, fingers deftly wrapping between Lawliet’s and tugging him to his feet from the relative comfort of the couch.

“But there’s no music, Light.” _A most excellent plan, indeed_.

“We don’t need it.”

Lawliet stands relatively far from him. He doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to notice the way Light smells like rain, doesn’t want to acknowledge the way that having his hands held strongly resembles something he had lost centuries ago standing outside the gates of Wammy’s House, like a space were being filled.  A case finally being solved after gathering cobwebs and dust.  Such a line of thinking is, naturally, preposterous – or it would be, if the suspect whose heart was beating just in front of him weren’t the physical incarnation, the very universal suggestion, that his mind could afford to be completed by another human being.

Light pulls him closer, a small smile tugging at his lips. Inexplicably, Lawliet straightens his back – he and Light are almost at eye-level, their hands clasped together at their sides, their chests almost touching.  The sun pours in, blissfully unaware as it slowly slips away – sans skin, sans teeth, sans lips, sans everything.  

_Does it know it’s dying, every day?_

“Isn’t this nice?” Light asks quietly, as though he were suddenly caught off guard by the reckless nature of his own boldness. Lawliet is certain that if he concentrated, he could hear Light’s heart beating through his shirt. Tempted by the idea, he carefully releases one of Light’s hands and places a hand to his chest.

“It’s rather inappropriate, actually. Your heart is beating rather quickly, Light.  It makes me wonder –"

“Don’t say it raises my Kira percentage.”

 _No.  It makes me wonder if you are actually my One, and if we aren’t some cosmic joke, quite literally dancing into someone’s palm._   He bites his tongue.

Light reciprocates by reaching out, hesitating just before his laying his fingertips at the curve of Lawliet’s neck, and then outstretching their hands, clasped tightly together, in a loose embrace to the side. “I trust you’ve done some dancing before, Ryuzaki?”

“You may be surprised.”

In spite of their postures, they seem to be frozen. Seconds fall around them like stars tumbling to their feet, and they don’t move.  Lawliet is taken aback by the intensity of Light’s expression – his eyes are like wine, like something he’ll drink too deeply of and find himself lost.  His lips are like secrets, like bullets, like paper.

“It’s easy,” Light says, and his voice sounds somehow small even in the grandeur of their space.  _He’s shaking_.  “Follow my lead.”

“I know it’s easy, Light.” 

Light shoots him a deliberate glance, his gaze flicking up from the ground and their feet. 

“Here.  This way. Step back.  And then to the side.”

“Ah.  Ballroom dancing.” _Where did you learn this from?_

They move silently, as though there are words left to be said but neither lingers in the temptation or longs to yield to the unspoken weight of the other.  Light’s steps are quick and deft, but Lawliet is determined to keep up with him. Thus is the very paradoxical nature of their relationship, as they are in every way parallel and perpendicular. So they spin, and spin, and Lawliet pretends to not notice the way that the sun slips away. 

_Don’t be poetic.  Say it as it is.  His name is Light Yagami, but his name is also Kira.  You might be falling for Light Yagami’s mind, but Kira and L are enemies._

“Ryuzaki.”

They freeze, and Lawliet realizes that they hadn’t looked at each other; he, at least, had been staring at their hands, locked at the side as if it were a novel phenomenon he had never before encountered. The hands clasped together are the ones joined by the handcuffs.  He narrows his eyes and meets Light’s gaze, unshaking.

Light smiles a little, and raises his hand to the side of Lawliet’s head, fingers tangling in his hair.  His eyes dart, if only for a split moment, to see the very epithet, the synecdoche of what keeps them together and divides them as surely as the hands of a clock stretching and yawning in the space – the invisible grey hair at Lawliet’s temples, the catalyst for his disappearance.

“When this case is over, and when we catch Kira,” Light says, his voice firm and quiet, “what happens after that?”

“That depends, Light-kun,” Lawliet says, his hand tightening around Light’s.  Their fingers are a jumbled, knotted mess, inseparable even if they sought to pull apart.     _I wanted it to be you. I don’t want it to be you. But if Kira’s consciousness was transferred… What if you become Kira again?_   “I shall begin to solve other cases again, I suppose. It’s rather unusual for me to halt everything to work on one case alone.”  He had delegated such responsibilities to Mihael and Mail, back at Wammy’s House. It’s easy enough to think of the future in terms of concrete facts; that’s how he always operates.

Light hesitates.  “When you solve cases again,” he says softly, “I want to help.”

“I’m not used to working with a partner, I’m afraid. I can work alone. I’ve done it for long enough.”

The words, oddly redundant and empty, spill from Lawliet’s mouth like a pre-recorded track, unbidden. He’s practiced the speech in his mind for long enough, like a safeguard.

“As long as I’m here, you’ll never be alone. Remember?”  Light smiles slightly and shakes their hands, still clasped tightly together, all fire and no longer entirely dry. 

“I’ll remove the handcuffs when I’m certain you’re not Kira.”  _When_. He catches his own breath, but stifles the pang of shock as it pulses through his heart, electric and toxic. _Don’t make promises you can’t keep._

“Or when you’re certain I am,” Light adds, a bit of an ironic smirk reaching his eyes.  He’s too adept at reading Lawliet’s thoughts.  “But it won’t happen that way.  Maybe tomorrow we’ll catch Kira.  And even when we do, you aren’t going to be alone.”

Lawliet thinks of Beyond Birthday, who – whether directly or not – had always made a similar promise, the idea of crafting a perfect crime, the only one to go down in history; the perfect crime for a perfect detective, both compounded and built on the premise of time.  Light promises something similar – but not the perfect crime, he promises that together they’ll be the perfect team. On the same side of the clock, not opposite sides.  “What could compel such certainty?” Lawliet asks, although it’s an empty question. Again, the hint of childish fervor sneaks into his tone, against his will. 

_What further answer could you possibly want? We’re both aging._

“Would you hate it if I told you that you complete me?” Light answers smoothly, as though he’d been thinking the sentiment for a long while and finally was propelled into voicing his thoughts.

_It’s desire driving this, nothing else. He desires you; you desire him, too._

“Do you think before you speak?” Lawliet asks evenly in turn, but the words fall from his lips in all the wrong ways and the tone of his own voice surprises him.

“More than you suspect.  And that’s not an answer, Ryuzaki.”

_I know._

“You’re going to finish university,” says Lawliet carefully.  “And follow in your father’s footsteps, I presume.  Someone with such a strong sense of justice couldn’t bear to do anything else, other than attempt to save the world.”  He pictures Light with his forehead pressed against the glass of a car window, gazing at buildings as they pass by, eyes wide and bright. Maybe he’d work in the city, fall in love with the bright outlines of skyscrapers kissing the stars. He’d fall in love with trying to save the world, for as many years as he had left.

“But will I be with you?”

Light is insistent, and he untangles his hand from the side, using both hands to grip Lawliet’s shoulders.   “Please, Ryuzaki,” he whispers, leaning forward so that there is only the space of a breath between them. “I want to be…with you.”

Lawliet doesn’t dare move.  His pulse is beating incessantly in his ears, his skin uncomfortably itching to be touched.  The sun is gone and so the night is indecipherable, hanging somewhere between the promise of stars and their fall – it’s easy enough to swallow feelings, but he’s not sure that he wants to keep running.  Light’s sweeping declaration is sentimental, such that it almost sounds forged, crafted for the sake of manipulation, and he doesn’t want to allow himself to be manipulated, but it’s his One speaking.  They’re on the same plane – they never speak the word One, but it’s implied.  They couldn’t possibly part. Light with his silver-tongue and his promises and intoxicating eyes, Lawliet on the other side with his defense. With hands, slipping to sand, telling secrets about sin, blinking away into some dreamscape with surprise.

“I believe you,” he says in turn.

_I have loved you for years before I even knew your name.  I was born to love you, and to hate you._

Love him, and love his amber eyes, and love his sin, and love him still and love him still and love him still.

In an instant they close the gap between them, huddled in a quiet embrace as the moon seeps in through the windows, paling in comparison to the scent of rain.  They are not dust, not soot, not stars, but by the end, they’ll burn up from the very principle of the way they were crafted to live and die.

They work silently after that.  Later in the night, Light wakes when Lawliet is still listlessly clicking through his laptop.  He sees the screen but doesn’t register it.  As for Light, tears are running down his face as he reaches for Lawliet. He mutters something about being cornered, against a fence, staring down the barrels of guns. Another crimson sunset.

Lawliet, trapped in a state of dreaming himself, leans forward and carefully kisses Light’s eyelids and eyelashes, wiping the tears away with skeleton fingertips and humming wordlessly from his throat.  It’s something neither should remember in the morning, precious more than an expression of comfort. A veil of protection, nothing they'd do in the daylight. And how strange it is, that Light should reach for Lawliet.  The most toxic choice – poisoning himself and Lawliet alike with the uncertainty of the case.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ryuzaki.”

Lawliet wakes to the sound of his name. It’s Light, of course, the halo of the sun ducking behind his head from the window.  His eyes are still somewhat red, undoubtedly a remnant of their conversation from early in the morning.

“Ryuzaki, your phone is going off,” Light says quietly, pointing to the nightstand.  “It’s a message from Watari, I think.”

“Mmm.  I see.” Lawliet reaches across the bed to grab the phone, and Light slips fingers around his other hand. The gesture is still unfamiliar, but welcome.  Lawliet flicks the cover of the phone open, speed dialing Quillsh’s number with the tap of a single number.

“Ryuzaki.”

“Yes?”

“We’re going to need you at headquarters. Can you come here soon?”

“Of course.  Is something the matter?”  Beside him, Light tenses visibly.

“Nothing quite serious.  Chief Yagami and the others want to speak to you. It’s about police involvement in the case.”

“I see,” Lawliet says, voice trailing off idly. “Light and I will be there soon.”

“Light,” Quillsh repeats, ever so quietly, and then hangs up the phone.  It’s an empty sound.

“We’ll be going to headquarters soon,” Lawliet says, snapping the phone closed.  “We have to get ready soon.”

“Yes.”

In spite of Light’s words, neither makes a move to slip out of bed.

“Thank you for last night,” Light says, his voice quiet, turning to gaze out the window as though something had caught in his throat.

“Speak nothing of it,” Lawliet says, a bit awkwardly.

_He was crying, and I kissed him, so many times._

_He’s Kira…._

Lawliet is abruptly dizzied by the prospect, feeling a strange sinking creep into his heart as he watches their fingers intertwined.

Light pulls his hand out of Lawliet’s, pushes the sheets off himself, smiling ever so slightly. 

“Maybe we’ll catch Kira today,” he says, the same words as ever but they sound different to Lawliet, who somehow feels that he's seeing the sun for the first time when he looks over and Light's eyes are so clear and shining with gold.

_Maybe so._

_The sooner the better._

_Please don't let Light Yagami be Kira._

_Some part of me...would be fine if Light Yagami weren't Kira._


	18. The Soft (October) Sky

One of the questions most frequently explored by scientists, with all their equipment and paperwork and manners of prying into the unsolved, was always the predicament of soulmates.  

Science always sought to explore the world, so science asked: _why do soulmates they exist?  Why does everyone find themselves attached to one person alone, leading to either a romantic or a platonic bond - a close bond, if named in no other way?_

Naturally, the next question right after the first was always how to propel people to find their Ones as fast as possible, to keep the population level healthy. To combat isolation, to fight for love.  If not even for love – _something_ , to find that _something_ , and market it as love, a gimmick so powerful that people became willing to march to their graves.  History bears witness and unfolds as tribute to the idea that the world found answers to the second question, but not the first.

Lawliet always watched with a cynical eye from the shadows.  He was vaguely indifferent to his solitude, at first; it felt like neither a blessing nor a curse, and simply saw it for what it was: more time to solve puzzles.  Only in his latest years did he feel the longest stretch, like he was becoming a clock rather than measuring his life by one.  If he closed his eyes, he slept for seasons at a time; if he awoke, he worked.  He read books, sipped wine with Aceline, and only somewhat expressed a desire that perhaps dying wouldn’t be so bad after all.  His way of thinking, his way of being, existing, all changed the moment Light threw him a glance over his shoulder from the lens of a camera perched in a corner of his room and took his hand.  Ironically, it was only then, after being introduced formally to his personal reaper, that he felt himself suddenly stirred by a fire he thought had long since died.

Back at Wammy’s House, his thoughts were muddled, flat all along.  He was craving something that he didn’t know could exist – the touch of Light falling asleep against his back, the purpose of something that threw him into danger, a cause that drew him deeper into an examination of the character he was throwing himself up against rather than the prospect of victory.

It knifed the question straight into Lawliet's chest, the moment he realized:

_Are people soulmates because a bond exists?_

_Or because there will be one, and our bodies are telling us things we don't yet know?_

 

* * *

 

 

_If there was ever a time to be wrong, it would be now._

 

* * *

 

 

They brush their teeth silently in front of the sinks, the mirror precisely clean but almost emptily so.  There are handprints over the countertops.  Lawliet steals glances at Light, never for too long, knowing that even if Light were to see him watching it would be considered nothing out of the ordinary.  But glances now feel different, as though they are built by more than the implications belonging to a detective interested in pure observation alone. Looking over feels like an invasion of privacy, somehow, and although Lawliet isn’t going to shy away from it, he understands trepidation for what it is.

Light, likewise – while always having been more than a mere suspect – is different.

 _Light Yagami…._ Lawliet stares at his own reflection in the mirror, watching the eyes that had watched him for six hundred years. He’d always been bored by his own appearance, but less so now.

_You make me feel different. Better and worse all at once._

_I hope, for the first time…_

“I wonder what Dad has to say,” Light mumbles, tucking his toothbrush into its usual place at the corner of the sink.  He turns to face Lawliet head-on, his eyes still unusually bright.   

Lawliet is almost caught off guard by the expression, but remains neutral even with a mouth full of toothbrush. “If it weren’t for Watari mentioning police involvement in the case,” he muses after he leans down to rinse his mouth with water, “I’d almost consider it had something to do with…”

He doesn’t have to finish. The two of them bond because of secrets. Lawliet keeps one, Light keeps one, and together they keep one.

Light flashes Lawliet a small, lopsided smile – a ridiculous expression, on such an occasion – and glances back at the mirror.  Even without fully spoken articulation, the words he was about to speak are no mysteries.

The parallelism of the moment strikes Lawliet keen and fast, so much that it leaves a hole yawning in him when he considers it.  He had always denoted Beyond Birthday as the opposite side of his own reflection in a mirror; perhaps some part of him saw Kira in much the same fashion.  But, now, Light Yagami stands on the same side of a mirror, looking back at their opposites.  

_It’s Lawliet and Light, staring back at L and Kira. All secrets, smoke and mirrors._

“Ryuzaki,” Light says, as he watches Lawliet put the toothbrush down.  He slowly leans over, slips his fingers around Lawliet’s thumb, questioning.  

Lawliet doesn’t brush him away.  

 

* * *

 

They walk to headquarters with their arms swinging closely together, pinky fingers intertwined – just barely, but enough.  It’s a gentle wisp of a movement, but one that drowns and radiates within itself from glowing.  

The pacing is vaguely reminiscent of when they had walked through the hospital hallways together, long ago, the smell of floors that had been cleaned with ominous vigor and ghosts of goodbye whispered onto every inch of glassy marble.  They had worn tennis shoes then, and left scuffmarks on the ground when cherry blossoms fell from the sky carelessly as dirty rain.  

These halls are equally filled with ghosts – the seconds flood to part them, crest above and below their hands.  Likewise they swirl around their heads, run fingers along their jawlines.

 _This is the curse of living in a world with Ones_ , Lawliet thinks.

_Maybe I’d never have touched him, if it meant I could live forever with him._

Before Light, Lawliet had undoubtedly lacked any conceptualization of how time manifested itself – he had locked himself in the rooms of Wammy’s House, read books to make time feel as if it were frozen justifiably.  Before Light, he was losing, slowly – it didn’t matter how many cases he solved, or how difficult they were.  He was so tired, without knowing it.  And, indeed, there would be time for anything he could fathom.  So was it Light who had changed the way he opened his eyes, or was it the imminence of death?

Lawliet only notices the changes if he concentrates carefully on thinking back, stripping his memory of each level.  And then there are things like –

Every night before he went to sleep, he checked the sides of his temples for grey hair.

Now, he glances to memorize the precise color of Light’s eyes, and not always for the sake of the case; sometimes, his irises look like the color of the most beautiful butterfly’s wings he could imagine.  And sometimes, Light is looking over at him too, with the mirage of a smile almost turning his lips at the corners.

And there are undoubtedly ghosts in the hallways – ghosts of pacing through to see Misa Amane, ghosts of walking to see the sunrises and sunsets, ghosts of waiting for coffee to remind him that his veins have blood in them as surely as anyone else’s.  Lawliet glances over, tracing Light’s shoulders with his gaze, the stiff posture belied by the way his fingers search for Lawliet’s.  

_I cannot make decisions based on feeling alone.  I never have._

_But I cannot imagine being in these hallways without you._

 

* * *

 

 

Instinctively, they drop their hands apart when they are standing before headquarters.  It’s Light who opens the doors, and they’re almost instantly greeted by the whispers that hover through the space.  Everyone is huddled at the front of the room in a tight circle, standing by the desk.

Lawliet can see Aizawa’s brow is furrowed intently, his eyes flashing with a dangerous glare.  “We’re doing the most we can,” he says, words coated with only a thin veil of control.  Beside Lawliet, Light stiffens visibly; a quick glance to the side reveals his hands are bunched into fists.

_What is this?_

Soichiro turns back to look at them, his expression somewhat grim.  “Good morning,” he says, with an unusual abruptness.  “We’ve received news that the police are getting tired of waiting to catch Kira.  They want to see results faster.”

_Ah…_

“What do you mean?” Light fires quickly, stepping forward in an instant only to then lean back, recoiling as if in hesitation.  “What do you mean, see results?  Don’t they know we’re doing the best we can?”

Soichiro looks at Lawliet, more than a bit deliberately, the glare of his glasses hiding his eyes almost entirely.  Likewise, Lawliet feels Aizawa and Matsuda staring at him.  

“They don’t understand L’s methods,” Soichiro says, a bit grim.  “They don’t understand why he hasn’t been able to solve the case yet.  It’s been months of being in the dark.”

Lawliet glances at Matsuda, who is visibly sweating, his lips pressed into a nervous line.

_He thinks I haven’t solved it because Light is my One._

_Or, at least, the thought has crossed his mind._

“Isn’t that even more proof of the scale of what we’re dealing with?” Light snaps before Lawliet can speak, his usually calm voice raised with indignation.  “We’re trying to catch something we can’t even comprehend.  How’re we supposed to catch a power that passes from person to person so fast?  If it were that easy, we’d have caught Kira long ago!”

“We know,” Aizawa says flatly, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks frustrated, unabashedly, and he’s rubbing the sole of his shoe into the ground as though he could find answers there.  “Try explaining that to the police, then.”

“Mmm… So what happens next?” Lawliet muses, his voice smooth and almost bored as he tucks his hands into his pockets, like a thief hiding what he’d found.

_A thief of time, fairly enough._

He also keeps the secrets of what it felt like to hold Light’s hand concealed carefully in his pockets.

“Working longer hours,” says Soichiro in response, tucking his hands into his pockets and bowing his head.  He glances at the clock behind them, just above the door – the greatest reaper of all.

“We’re already working nonstop,” Light says thinly, as he gestures to the handcuff around his wrist.  “This is ridiculous.”

“I know.  But we have to solve this case, whatever it takes.” Soichiro sounds more resigned than anything else.

_I know._

“Very well,” says Lawliet, feeling a hole yawning itself wide as if to replace his stomach, as he glances at the floor and away from Light.  “We’ll implement longer hours.”

“You’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful,” says Light, quieter.  Lawliet doesn’t look over, but can imagine his precise expression – concerned, but softly so.  “You barely sleep as it is.”

_I can sleep when I’m dead._

And, then –

_Just confess already, Light Yagami.  Then we can both –_

He thinks of Beyond Birthday, what he said in a dream: that even if Light were Kira, he wouldn’t need to rot in prison.  Maybe they could work something out.

_If he were to stay with me, to help me solve cases for the rest of our lives…_

_If it’s certain we’ll die anyway, and his life with me is certainly as damning as if he’d received the aging catalyst…_

All of it flashes through his head in just moments, but he simply looks over at Light.  “You worry about me, Light?” he asks.  

“We all do!” Matsuda cuts in, his words ungraceful and slippery.  He keeps a secret, too. “We all do, L – I mean, Ryuzaki.  We all want you to be healthy.”

_He’s covering the tracks of anything that looks suspicious._

“He’s right,” Light says, perhaps unconsciously raising a hand to his temples. Or maybe it was conscious. Every moment is calculated, with Light. Lawliet reminds himself to never forget it.  “We have to end this.”

“Very well then.  Back to work,” says Soichiro resignedly, and Aizawa nods terse affirmation.  Light, for his part, pulls on the handcuffs gently, so that Lawliet looks over at him.  He’s almost swept off his feet by the clarity and gentleness in Light’s eyes, a sharp stinging pulling at the bottom of his stomach.

_Almost like he loves me._

_Would I believe him, if he…?_

_But surely it’s still an act. An act by Kira, to get closer to L._

_Maybe so.  But if that’s the case…_

Lawliet steps backwards, as if stricken by something piercing his heart, as the realization dawns on him.  Light throws a glance over his shoulder and stares back, with a small smile clearly intended to be reassuring; Lawliet glances over, sees Aizawa watching him, and it’s as though Light has ripped holes all over him by running his teeth along his skin.  Light, the inadvertent but perfect siren to Lawliet’s hopeless sailor, replaced all the sugar in his throat with dynamite and poison, lamplight laughter from their bedside table, the window with sunshine or moonlight that was nothing more than silent, jagged claws for all of its rays, and the bleakness of it absorbed into Lawliet’s blood.  

_Maybe it’s my own fault for falling for it._

 

* * *

 

 

The tea party with Misa later in the day is intended to great some sort of difference, but it’s likely to be worth nothing.

Lawliet, having dragged Light along the hallway with the somewhat futile hope that perhaps Misa would say something that could give some sort of clue, had tried to keep his heart out of his throat when Light asked him why they were going.

“You don’t have to do this,” he asked, brushing his fingers fleetingly at the small of Lawliet’s back, leaving a burning warmth at the spot he touches.  “She doesn’t have anything more to say, and I’m not Kira.  It’s as though you won’t be satisfied unless it’s me who’s Kira.”

“It’s the precise opposite, but I have to expound all the possibilities,” Lawliet says in turn, too quickly.  He glances to see Light’s eyes open wider, ever so slightly.

_That’s right.  I hope you are not Kira, but I have the feeling you were._

Light smiles at him, lowering his head so that his bangs hide the sharpness of his eyes in the dimly lit hall.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, quietly, and again reaches out, running his fingers from the base of Lawliet’s spine, to trace circles over his hip and the bit of skin just above the belt loop of his pants.  It’s an oddly immediate gesture, one intended to signify closeness that makes Lawliet’s heart race a bit faster in his wrists.

_Quillsh can see the videotapes.  He’s likely watching._

So it would likely be undesirable, then, if Lawliet were to stop abruptly, gather Light closer to him and kiss him, just for the sake of opening his own eyes to see Light staring back at him – with the void all too immediate and full of fireworks, telling implicit stories of just how fast they could fall.  As if Lawliet could kiss him hard enough, or if Light smiled at him just long enough, that they could melt back into sleeping and take away the investigation, if only for a day, so that the mind games wouldn’t win their war.

The question remains if it is a war against each other, or a war against Kira.

_Or both, or neither._

 

* * *

 

 

When Misa sees them, the smile melts from her face, her pretty lipstick pout turning down to the floor.  “Light?” she asks, and Lawliet almost recoils at the way she says it in a nearly accusatory fashion.  “You look…different.”

Light smiles, raising an eyebrow loftily.  “What makes you say that?” he asks, deflecting the question with nothing more than a verbal brush of his hand.  Lawliet glances over, runs his eyes over Light’s profile and neck clinically, and watches the perfect façade unfold.

_You are a good liar, Light Yagami.  Everything I observe…makes me think you are Kira.  I really have no doubt._

“You look more tired,” Misa notes, tilting her head to the side, her hair dancing around her shoulders as she raises a finger to her lips in surprise.  “And your forehead is more…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Misa,” Light says, pushing through the doorway with an air of confidence – one that Lawliet hasn’t seen since before he was voluntarily imprisoned.  Misa jumps back from the entrance, squinting at him.  “We’ve been working long hours.  Of course we’re going to look tired.”

_Confident when lying.  Noteworthy._

“You’re right,” says Misa, even though she’s still frowning.  She glances at Lawliet, narrows her eyes at him.  “Have you been keeping him up late?  Light’s mine, remember.”

“I’ll tell you again,” Lawliet counters, almost boredly, “I’m not doing this because I want to.”

She doesn’t have to say the word for Lawliet to know she’s thinking it: _pervert_.   Light wanders to the center of the room, crosses his arms – casts a glance over his shoulder to see Lawliet.   “Misa, can you make us some tea?” he asks, even as he’s looking at Lawliet with wide eyes that never seem to look away.

_Maybe it’s only me who could notice his voice is shaking ever so slightly._

“Of course, Light,” she says, too quickly, almost enough to make Lawliet flinch with the realization of it.

_She would do anything for him._

Light moves to sit at the table they usually occupy, the one in the center of the room with the chairs on either side, facing a beautiful view of the city through a window with the sun pouring in unabashedly.  And Misa, she brings tea back for both of them.  Lawliet leaves his untouched, puts it on the table and watches the reflection of the overhead lights dancing on the surface while trying to refrain from being distracted by Light’s hand lying close to his on the tabletop.

_She’ll notice.  Careful._

Light smells the slightest bit like vanilla, Lawliet notes, and it almost fogs his mind.  He’s sitting close, closer than he ever did before, and Misa’s eyes are flicking down as if to watch, but she doesn’t say anything as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and clicks her tongue, ever so slightly to cut the silence of the room.  Lawliet grazes the skin of his thumb with his teeth, and he’s as plainly opened as he is closed.

“This is the worst date I’ve ever been on,” Misa remarks mildly after only a moment, looking at Lawliet with a certain deliberacy.  “You’re always close to Light.  Is there something weird going on between you two?”

“Misa,” says Light thinly, “you’re being absurd.”  He instantly stiffens his posture, sits straighter in his seat.

Lawliet reacts only by tilting his head to the side.

“I’m investigating him under suspicion of being the first Kira,” he says.  “Is there a problem?”

“But you can’t leave Light and I alone, just for a minute?”

“Ah.  Even if I did, I’d still be watching on camera, anyway.”

“Hmm.”  Misa frowns, leans back in her seat.  

“We’re close to solving the case,” Light adds.

_He always says that._

“Hmm.  Sometimes…” She falters, and she suddenly looks like she’s in pain – like she dropped a glass and let the contents pour onto the floor, like she lost something sacred.  Lawliet’s chest lurches.  “Sometimes I just wonder…”

She looks at Lawliet, her brown eyes filled with questions and implicitly sad.  “I’m not sure why I love Light as much as I do,” she says, softer now.  “But what matters is that I do.  He’s…  He’s not my One, is he?”

“I’d have started aging by now,” Light says, even though it’s obvious.  He sounds strangely cold.

“It’s likely that your love for him is related to his being Kira and your being the Second Kira,” Lawliet drawls, glancing away to see the window instead.  “Even if you don’t remember.  But like I’ve said, it almost seems too simple.”  He pauses.  “Mmm.  Time will tell all things.  Thank you for the tea.”   

He hasn’t touched it.

Misa says nothing, her usually upbeat demeanor vanished into ashes.  She bows her head to look at the table.  

“Maybe we should go back to work,” Light says quietly.

“Maybe so.”

Lawliet isn’t remiss for it.

Misa looks up, runs a finger along the plate acting as the base for her teacup.  Her nails are painted a deep bloodred, almost insinuating something sinister by the color alone.  “I’ll see you later for another date soon, Light,” she says cheerily enough, but it’s obviously a charade.  

“Sure,” Light says, already standing and turning his back to her.

Misa doesn’t get up to kiss him; she makes no moves at all as Light and Lawliet slowly leave, the chain ringing as it slaps against itself.

Lawliet can’t shake the feeling –

_She knows._

_Matsuda.  Aizawa.  Misa…_

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as the door clicks behind them, Light pauses, bowing his head to the ground and tucking a single hand into his pocket.  Lawliet stares, watching his every motion, as everything he does seems to open the world a little wider with the careful cuts of his actions.

“Do you think she’s aware, Light?”

Light glances up, eyes flashing.  “She’s not the brightest.  But she certainly seems to know something.”  He hesitates, averts his gaze from Lawliet’s.  “We’re running out of time.”

“Ah, yes.  I’m aware.”

Swiftly, Light steps closer to Lawliet, and pushes him gently against the wall.  They’re standing so close together that their chests are almost touching, hearts beating equally fast amid the emptiness of the rest of the hall.  Light curls his fingers around Lawliet’s wrist, tilts his head to the side, and wholly seems to notice the invisible flutter of wings at Lawliet’s throat even if neither of them makes any move.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Light says simply, his voice lowered to breach only the space between them and nothing more.  His face is ashen.  “I want this to be over.  I don’t care if you only wanted Kira to be me.  We’re going to get out of this, and I’ve decided there’s nothing I won’t do to get out of it.”

“Then we’ll have to catch Kira,” says Lawliet, raising an eyebrow and keeping his done dull even when every bit of him is filled with apprehension.  “There’s no other way for this to end.”

_And… Nothing you won’t do, Light Yagami?_

Slowly, Light backs away, staring at the ground.  “Come on,” he says, as he moves to leave.  There’s a quick coldness in his voice, a tone Lawliet hadn’t recognized before.  “Let’s go back to headquarters.”  

Slowly, he starts to walk away.

Slowly, he leaves Lawliet aching for something more than the proximity afforded by the handcuffs unfeeling against his wrist.

 

* * *

 

 

After that, Light doesn’t touch him for days.  They spend most of their time unspeaking, and they don’t share a bath, electing instead to shower and then be done with the matter.  The tension is almost palpable, for reasons that are somehow both clear and ambiguous to Lawliet.  It’s not unreasonable to conceptualize Light, so firmly believing in his innocence, is indignant at the prospect of Lawliet’s perpetual hesitance and determined suspicion.  The question is, rather, what prompts the suddenness of the change.

Light falls asleep with his back facing Lawliet, never turning back or brushing against Lawliet to gain any semblance of protection.  When he wakes with nightmares, his breath coming in heavy gasps, Lawliet doesn’t comfort him.

It’s easy enough for Lawliet to act cold, but it doesn’t stop him from considering that it had sometimes been less lonely to fall asleep when physically isolated, before he even knew the name Light Yagami, made to be a puppet dancing into the hands of time.  

He barely looks at Light at all.  Rather, he focuses his attention on Light’s omnipresent wristwatch, sensing some inexplicable, intuitive storm of dread building in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

“More heart attacks,” says Aizawa grimly the next morning, shuffling paperwork with calloused hands.  Matsuda responds with a chorus of dramatic sighs, going so far as to throw his arms into the air and stomp his feet on the ground.  Light glances over, but doesn’t say anything.  His lips are pressed into a thin line.

“We’ll keep working,” Lawliet says dryly.  It’s the most he’s spoken all morning; Light had been wholly unresponsive upon waking, and continued the chain of silence.  Lawliet curls onto his chair, leaving his computer untouched and spinning to face the others.

“Will this ever end?” Matsuda mutters, to which Soichiro makes a noise of disapproval.

  
“Perhaps,” Lawliet says, and bites his thumb.  “Only time can tell.  But if things continue like this, there’s a chance Kira could find me before I could find him.  And if he does…”  He trails off, letting himself catch sight of Light from the corner of his vision before he continues.  “Light would be quite capable of succeeding me as L.”

“Ryuzaki,” says Light, except he doesn’t quite _say_ it so much as he hisses it, “where the hell did that come from?  We still have plenty of time.”

Lawliet could say he did it to garner a reaction, or to motivate Light into seeing something that could lead them to a successful trail – and perhaps it’s true, but another part of him wanted to hear Light’s voice.

“If I die,” he says again, plainly, “would you take over for me?”

Light looks up. Stares at Lawliet with the most quiet expression, with burning eyes. Shakes his head.

_No._

Time stops for Lawliet; he can hear the ticking in his head.

 

* * *

 

 

The culmination of their silence erupts in a fight on the fifth day.  It’s a conflict that spins and churns with the same verbal violence as the storm raging outside.   

_I am absolutely certain that you are –_

“Kira,” Lawliet says softly, the word like dirty rain crashing onto the forlorn dirt smeared across the unfeeling marble of a grave.  It’s worse than the rain slapping against their window at the precise moment, somehow even colder.

_And, somehow, I don’t want to do this anymore._

_I wanted you to be Kira, but now…_

_I’m not sure I’d mind if you weren’t._

He gazes at Light’s back, silhouette graceful against the bedroom windowpane.  The curve of his neck is lovely as ever.

“I’m not,” Light says, raising his voice and breaking the visual of marble that Lawliet saw in him as his words broke. Anger creases his forehead when he turns, and his cheeks are bright red.  He’s visibly trembling, and he moves like lightning.  “I’m not.  I’ve told you thousands of times.  What do I have to do to make you believe me?”

He’s suddenly pushing Lawliet onto the bed, angrily grabbing at Lawliet’s wrists and pinning them to the side in some sort of desperate, faint-sick fevered dream.  He’s close, so close, and Lawliet’s breath hitches in his throat.

_This again._

It’s not unlike the way Light had pushed him in Misa’s hallway, only hours earlier.

Light’s eyes are heavy amber, filled to the brim with the questions drowning him, and a sort of tiredness – as if to say, _can we stop?  This isn’t the most important thing._

Lawliet fights the immediate and overwhelming urge to place his hand at the small of Light’s back, to hold him closer with the breath of space between them, eliminate any semblance of a gap holding them apart, but his hands are abruptly cold and he’s incapable of moving. Not only that – he doesn’t want to move. Again, the whispers – _touch me_ – draw him like knives folded into the creases of old tables, like the temptation of six hundred years of anticipation wants to govern him but he’s too afraid to simply be, and he’s more than his instincts.  He can only register the arc of Light’s hipbones and the outline of his figure pressed into the gaps of the space – still too much space – they’re closer than they had ever been and still something is missing.

“Light,” Lawliet whispers, almost choked, against his own will.

_Remember who the real enemy is –_

Light’s eyes are suddenly soft, the harder lines of his body melting into Lawliet’s posture, amber turning to gold. His hands tighten around Lawliet’s.

_You’re the only person who could be Kira. It’s only you. Only you could have concealed it for this long.  But…_

“An eye for an eye, my friend,” Lawliet says quickly, gripping more tightly and turning to roll over so that he’s now on top of the tangled mess of sheets and limbs and the feeling of Light so close to him is nearly overwhelming to the rational part of his mind. He aches at seeing the flush in Light’s cheekbones, lovely and painstaking like the wings of a bird, pinned on a corkboard, picturesque and vibrant but captive.

_He doesn’t see you this way and you don’t need it._

Lawliet thinks it’s the curiosity alone that compels the question of a sudden physical response, and he starts to pull away.

_This isn’t right.  This isn’t you._

“Wait,” Light says suddenly as Lawliet leans away from the embrace, fighting against a physical reaction to Light’s presence, the idea that even a single brush of their skin would send him into some sort of absurd craving to be touched.  It was a trap he didn’t need to fall into, one that could only restrain and twist his mind into something unrecognizably and unmistakably human.

_Waited six hundred years for this? Is this what everyone always spoke about – want?_

His blood is close to the surface of his skin, rushing and singing, and that’s how he knows it’s time to leave.

 _Go to the bathroom and hide behind the door._ He knows he’s hit a new low when he wants to be physically apart from Light, potential of Kira-related activities be damned.  He needs the silence of his mind to rationalize and bring him back to earth.

“L.”  Light falters like he dropped a glass.

Lawliet pulls away; the sound of the chain against the sheets is an empty hymn.  “Don’t call me that.” 

_Not right now._

“Ryuzaki.”

Lawliet has only a moment to turn before he finds his back pressed against the sheets again, feels Light’s hands on him, tucking careful and warm fingers against his chest.

“Your doing any of this raises the percent likelihood of you being Kira, Light,” Lawliet says, choked, and he’s almost embarrassed by the way he sounds – like someone had knocked the air out of him, like he was filled heavy with desire.  He pours the ache into the way he grips the sheets.  “You’ve been acting absurdly today.”

Light looks at him intently, as though he hadn’t heard Lawliet’s words.  “Ryuzaki,” he repeats, calm and even.  “The world’s greatest detective.  You are my One.”

“A wise observation.”  He’s breathing too heavily.  “Sixty percent.”

“You treat me most of the time as though you feel nothing,” Light says quietly, leaning down to brush against Lawliet’s ear with the whisper of it.  “But I’ll tell you something, a secret from me to you.”

_I love you._

Lawliet clenches his jaw.

“I’m not Kira.  It’s like I said earlier.  I want to stay with you, after we find the culprit,” Light says quietly, his eyes wide moons, not obscured by dust.  He looks at Lawliet so clearly and so unabashedly – an unmistakably intimate moment, like they are being tied together by more than just the cord around their wrists.

“You…” Lawliet trails off.  “Seventy percent.”

“Fine,” Light says, almost smiling as he pulls back to look at Lawliet bathed in the dim shadows cast all over the room. “I love you.”

Lawliet stops breathing. 

_Time stops._

Light leans forward, brushes the hair from Lawliet’s forehead and kisses the smooth skin, leaves small kisses down the bridge of his nose.  He hesitates for a moment before leaning forward to press his lips against Lawliet’s. It’s a gentle and quick touch, chaste and warm.

Light pulls away quickly, smiles only slightly, running his hands over Lawliet’s chest and tracing small circles into the skin there. “I had to try it once,” he says, and Lawliet hears him through ears that are suddenly filled with water, dreamlike as if he were on the sea drowning on the shore and Light is the siren calling to him.

“My life changed when I met you,” Light continues evenly, pulling back so that he’s no longer touching Lawliet. “I understand you - or, what I can see of you, anyway. Kira’s ideals are not unlike my own. I know you understand. But before I met you, I was unhappy. I can’t exactly remember all of it.”

“Seventy-five percent,” Lawliet says faintly, but it’s precious more than a formality to say.

_This is a ruse, meant to trick me into trusting him._

_But even so… This feels honest._

But Light drives on, alone.  “Working with you makes me happy,” he says, somewhat flatly. “And I can’t imagine being without you. You are my One, after all. It’s not a difficult concept to imagine. I’m selfish, and staying with you is not unlike coming home.  I need you.” He pauses, looks towards the window. “I want to stay with you, after we catch the Yotsuba group.  We’re both going to die anyway.  I don’t want to die alone.”

Lawliet lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, his skin aching to be touched. 

“So save us both,” Light says softly. “I know you can.”

He slides his hand into Lawliet’s.

Time freezes again. 

Lawliet thinks of his dream long ago, the one about Light in the field with the butterflies – enough so that he forgot that his One was even human at all.

Time waits for him to respond.

For the first time in months, it waits.

There has never been a greater rush against the clock, but time is infinite in the small square of their room.

Lawliet opens his mouth, imagines that butterflies pour out.

It’s against everything he knows he should say.  But he had never been one for following the rules; he solved puzzles not for the rules they created, but rather for the practice of challenging his mind.  Perhaps it was no different, for him to break the rules now – just as Light Yagami undoubtedly broke the rules to allow Kira to be born, to solve another puzzle: _How do I make the world a better place, in my image?_  He succumbed to the temptation, made the rules as he went along.  And Lawliet is no different, a monster in another light –

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s impulsive, and almost absurd.  He knows the chance of Light believing him – of what they’re both saying holding any truth – is relatively slim.  For all it could be worth, it could be nothing more than another level of mind games.  And somehow, it doesn’t stop Light from curling as close as he can to Lawliet, running his hand to the crease of Lawliet’s elbow because his shirtsleeve has slipped up to his forearm and so Light traces fingers along the veins and follows the motion until his fingers are clasped tightly in Lawliet’s and they’re altogether a mess of limbs wrapped together underneath the sheets.

Light is far from distant or cold, as he was for the majority of the day.  His eyes never leave Lawliet’s, as though he’s concentrating intently.  “Ryuzaki,” he says, and he says it again until the word sounds strange and unformulated, like it’s falling apart and dissolving into stars, or champagne bubbles, or individual letters.

 _Like the letter L._ They are both L.

“Light,” Lawliet says evenly, his voice unusually quiet.  He tries saying the word without being accusatory.  His hands are buzzing.  

_Adrenaline.  Epinephrine._

_That’s what made me say –_

Light leans forward, kisses Lawliet slowly and clenches his fingernails into the back of Lawliet’s hand, leaving small red half-moons on the skin.  The chain of the handcuffs tangles itself in the sheets, whispers their secrets.

_How silly, to be drunk on this – after six hundred years – to come to this –_

The taste of Light’s kiss still lingers on him, and he leans forward anyway because even though it’s not sickeningly sweet like sugar he still wants more it, or needs it.  Somehow, it acts as a reminder that Light should be catching Kira too.

Lawliet’s head is dizzy with desire he doesn’t know how to fight, and he’s barely conscious of himself but he leans over and turns the lamp off where it stands at the bedside table.  Their room is cast into darkness broken only by the deep blue glow from the small window at the wall, accompanied by the sound of rain heavy at the window.  Light presses even closer, practically lying on top of Lawliet, his ear close to Lawliet’s heart.

“Your heartbeat is fast,” Light says quietly, not bothering to hide a trace of satisfaction. It’s recognizable in him.

“Ah, yes.  I suppose so.”

Lawliet brushes the back of Light’s neck with his hand, feels the stray hairs stuck to his skin with sweat, leans forward and kisses the top of his head.   Light in turn looks up, his eyes wide and observant as he stares, almost as though there he were observing a sky full of stars rather than the detective handcuffed to him.

There’s still a degree of hesitation, Lawliet notes, as he watches Light without moving.  Still the burning question of wondering, _why_ , because it’s simply not enough of an answer to accept that because they are Ones they should be lying together like this, with Light curled on top of him and with his fingers dancing across his stomach, as though playing an old piano idly.  Lovingly, even.

_It works in Light’s favor to play this way.  He seems to always move first.  But does that affect how genuinely…_

Lawliet freezes.

_Just for this one night, love him as if you could swallow and taper through the darker pieces of him, and forgive them._

_See what he does from there._

Somehow, it feels like less of a burden, and more of a secretly forbidden grace as he leans forward and reaches to cup Light’s face in his hands.  Light’s expression is even, but his cheekbones are unmistakably warmer even in the dim visibility of the room.  Lawliet traces the line of his hair against his forehead, leaves a thumb at his temple, and Light closes his eyes to lean into Lawliet’s palm.  

“How long,” Light whispers, after a pause, “were you alive?”  He pulls away from the embrace to lean closer, and rests in the dip of Lawliet’s collarbone.

Lawliet hesitates, sees the possibilities aching before him and knows them for all their danger.  For all he was aware of what could happen, Light could search extensively for him on the Internet based on his lifespan, and find his name.  That could put an effective end to their charade, if he were Kira – if he had ever been Kira, or still was, or became Kira again.  

“Five hundred years,” he says, softly.  His eyes sting, abrupt and quiet.  It’s a bit of a lie, but close enough to the truth.

Light tenses against him, undoubtedly surprised, perhaps even beyond the point of being able to conceal it.  Gone is the air of confidence he’d emulated earlier in the day, gone are the facades – leaving only a person who seems to start shaking, suddenly gripping Lawliet’s waist even tighter.

“Perhaps it’s you I should be more upset for,” Lawliet says, ignoring the way the room blurs, tilting his head back to face the ceiling.  Nothing looks hazy when what’s in your line of sight is monochromatic.  “You’ve had so few years.  Mmm… Although, it’s noteworthy that some might call you a success story, finding your One so fast.”

Light doesn’t say anything for a moment, still wrapping his arms tightly around Lawliet’s waist.  “I was already bored,” he says in a small voice that sounds as though it doesn’t belong to him.  “I can’t imagine…five hundred years.  You know, there aren’t very many people who live that long.”  

He sounds more like himself when he says the last sentence, perhaps because it’s a fact, or because it’s something unique to Lawliet and he’s used to noting unique things about Lawliet.  

“Ah.  Yes.  That’s correct.”  Lawliet falters.  “Many…” He trails off and thinks of Aceline, her suicide; remembers Beyond’s insanity that enveloped him into flames; thinks of the very day he had first heard about the Kira case, with a morning that found him standing in a graveyard – a cruel realization that now seems more like foreshadowing than anything else.  “That’s correct.”

_Not many of us last so long._

“We’re not meant to live for long,” Light notes, a bit hesitantly, pressing his lips against Lawliet’s chest.  “Population control.  We’re supposed to find our Ones and die happily.  And be glad to go.”

“That’s a correct observation.”

“And so…” Light leans away, frowning and bowing his head so that his hair covers his eyes.  “In a sense, I understand Kira.”

Lawliet feels himself tensing, his hands bunching into fists at his side, but Light quickly turns back and gracefully runs his fingers through Lawliet’s hair.  It’s an undeniably nice feeling.  “I understand,” Light says quietly, “that the world is filled with people in prisons who haven’t found their Ones, and they get to live and fill the world.”

“So you suggest all criminals should receive the aging catalyst?”

Light’s hand drops to Lawliet’s heart.  “No.”  He hesitates.  “I think it’s a cruel world we live in.  It’s a rotten place.  I think Kira tried to make the world a better place, and didn’t know how.  What he does is evil, but…”

_Light Yagami is Kira._

_Light Yagami is Kira._

_Light Yagami is Kira._

_Even he must know.  There’s no way it could be anyone else.  No one would be smart enough to frame him, and everything fits._

“The only way to make the world better is to die,” Lawliet says coldly, but he lies his hand overtop of Light’s and grasps it tightly, because it’s the only thing left he can feel in spite of himself.  

_I cannot believe –_

Light looks back, and his eyes seem to be slightly red-rimmed, wet beneath the lashes that cast shadows to raze dancing patches of darkness on his face.  He’s altogether too beautiful.

_There were six hundred years –_

There’s no foundation for Lawliet to be thinking such things, but he thinks of them anyway.  The foundation is the principle of the thing itself, a childish thought that urges him to hold Light’s hand and leave kisses all over him like small promises that neither of them can justifiably make and expect to uphold.

_Without you._

He’d thought more than once of clearing Light completely, and handing the case to Mail and Mihael, or Nate – saving Light, running away, keeping him a secret for the years until they were gone, but it seemed like an anticlimactic form of dying.  It seemed absurd in some ways that he’d spent his whole life alone, and he was prepared to die hidden as well.  Hidden, if not alone.

How easy would it be, to keep Light chained to him forever?  It’s a childish prospect, but there’s a sudden rush of emotion that surges in his chest at the thought.  To clear Light – even when he was likely responsible for the mass murder Lawliet had sworn to solve the mystery behind, even if he didn’t remember a trace of it – would be the opposite of everything he had dedicated six hundred years to, a rebellious and impulsive choice made in the face of death.

It’s as though Light is some sort of toy, belonging to a child – Lawliet’s held onto him, and now doesn’t want to let him go, even if he’d never admit it.

_How painful would it be, to destroy the mind of someone so bright?_

_What’s more: to destroy my One?  To leave him to rot in some prison corner with strange stains on the floors, to leave him bleeding into puddles, alone and falling to pieces, aging alone and dying without –_

The sharp pain Lawliet’s chest cuts him off, unexpectedly severs him from the destruction of his own thoughts.  He opens his mouth, finding only that no words come out.  Light stares at him, tilting his head as though he were attempting to guess the nature of Lawliet’s thoughts but was unable.

_I don’t want to give him away._

“Ah… There is a small chance,” Lawliet says, curling his legs closer to himself so he’s tucked into a ball and Light’s pushed away.  The physical space helps clear his thoughts, and he grazes his thumb with his teeth.  “There is a small chance, but if you are not Kira, I’d like you to stay and work with me after this is done. You can work with Nate, too.”

Light seems frozen, his eyes wide, but he gains composure quickly.  “I’d be honored, Ryuzaki.”  He doesn’t ask about the mention of Nate.  

_Even if…_

_Even if you are Kira._

_I do not want you to go._

He thinks of Aceline, despondent and lost after seeing her One die.  The reason Lawliet could never drink wine again.

_I’ve spent enough time lost._

_I do not want to lose Light Yagami._

 

* * *

 

 

_Who in the world would be able to judge Kira, fairly?_

_If the case were brought to trial –_

_If the case were sent straight past trial, damned right from the beginning –_

_Would anyone be able to come to a decisive outcome anyway?_

_If Kira’s power were instead the attempted medium in which to fix a world irreparably broken, the incarnation of someone so broken they were grasping with bloody hands to try to fix it all, would any human be able to judge it with genuine fairness?_

_It was murder, unquestionably.  The work of a corrupted heart, a broken mind –_

_Created in a moment of weakness –_

_And, even so…_

_What it takes to become un-broken, in this world, is to break._

_How could anyone pretend to be a fair judge, when everyone is on one side of the coin or another?_

 

* * *

 

 

Lawliet wonders, absently, if there is a world parallel to this one, in which people were not given soulmates so plainly and easily.  Wonders if it would change the way he looks at Light now, eyes tracing the every moment of his hands as he writes songs into Lawliet’s skin, and Lawliet in turn lets the curiosity of it dance on his lips without saying anything at all.  

Light kisses him quickly and never in the same place – kisses his eyelashes, kisses the line of his jaw.  It’s not precisely a sensual motion; more than anything, it’s further expression of their proximity, something inevitable and welcome.  There’s something about it that reflects the apparent depth of emotion that seems to edge towards the surface during the quietest of moments – he’s no longer the shadow from a cigarette charred against concrete.  Light Yagami is real.

Lawliet for his part holds himself back, refrains from touching Light further than weaving his fingers through his hair.  He remembers Light’s declaration from not long ago, muttered against the sheets covering him up to his neck –

_I don’t want to have sex with her.  I don’t want to have sex with anybody._

So Lawliet unfurls his smile, lets his fingers stay empty, and lets his guard down as much as he can.  He sweeps his own matted bangs from his forehead, chews on his thumb, and practices the art of falling in love so well he might even conceal it from himself.  All the while, the rain pours outside and slices the air as it descends, little crystals bringing new life to the world that had been too dry and too hot for too long.

Light falls asleep with fistfuls of Lawliet’s shirt bunched into his hands.

Lawliet thinks to himself, almost whispers:

_Tomorrow, let’s catch Kira.  Whoever Kira is now. You and I.  Light and Lawliet._

_Ones._

_A real team. Let's stop pretending for one day._

_If even only for a day._

_I would like to live one authentic day, just to know how it tastes._

As if he could hear Lawliet’s thoughts, Light curls closer into the embrace, unaware of the monsters he was binding his hands and feet with.  

_Or, perhaps, he is cutting away from his own monsters._

_Should I let him?_

Lawliet leaves a kiss at the crown of Light's head.

_Or otherwise sentence him, pretending I can, and get rid of mine._

 

* * *

 

 

Days pass quickly, and all semblance of darkness or cold passes away – even in spite of a world that doesn’t seem to change.  Clouds accumulate in the hazy summer sky.  

Nothing more and nothing less than this: they kiss each other to sleep every night, hold hands in the halls when there’s no one around, watch the sun set.  The outside world is sticky, leaves hair plastered to the backs of their necks.  There’s a sweetness, and further still a _longing_ about it that not even Lawliet’s preferred assortment of delicacies can quench.

Light says:

_I love you._

Lawliet says nothing sometimes, but squeezes Light’s hand harder.  Other times:

_I believe you._

Even when he doesn’t.

He said _I love you_ only once, on that first night.  He only needed to say it once.  Nothing changes on the surface, at least not to anyone else.

Each day, Lawliet’s thoughts drift two distinct places:

_I am going to die._

And –

_I do not want to give away Light Yagami._

Until, one week after Light first tells Lawliet _I love you_ –

 

* * *

 

 

“Ryuzaki.”

“Yes?”

“Come look at this.  Look.  Look carefully.  Isn’t it unbalanced?”

Lawliet flinches back when he notices it, pulling his chair closer to Light’s and staring at the toneless bright of the computer monitor filled with graphs and analytics.

“All three of these victims,” Light murmurs, “were prominent Japanese businessmen.  They all died of heart attacks.  As a result…”

“Yotsuba’s stock prices rose and those of other companies dropped.”

“They are deaths that are in Yotsuba’s favor.  Looking back, there have been thirteen similar deaths in the past three months.  Based on this, I can only conclude that Kira is supporting Yotsuba.”  Light looks over at Lawliet, his eyes wide and filled with unabashed brightness, even if his smile doesn’t quite reach his lips.  “What’re your thoughts?”

“Yes.  That could be,” Lawliet murmurs, glancing away.

Light finding this – it’s another way of saying _I love you_ , and _I want to stay_.

Or, another step closer to the end.

The truth is that Lawliet wants him to stay, too.  His heart picks up, even if he’d never betray it out on the outside.

_Light is Kira._

_And, maybe –_

_We can fix this, as much as anything can be fixed in this world._

_  
_

* * *

 

 

That night, after everyone else is in their rooms and so they sneak away, they kiss with their hands heavy and silent against each other’s necks, flashes from garish skyline lights flickering through the window and quick howls from streetcar sirens hurtling and cutting through the air quickly so as not to interrupt their dancing where Lawliet and Light are on the same plane. There are signs on buildings roughly scratched to say with rather literal graffiti words, “ _If you love someone, act on it,”_ and cicadas sing and hum-scream their songs until they’re nothing more than time bombs, but at least summer is still alive with the sounds of the night and Light’s hair is at least matted to the pillow and sticks up, still elegant, somehow, as the stars go out against the fever of the skyline. 

 Light Yagami is not a god. He’s only a man as fallible as any other, capable of finding a soulmate and capable of dying. Men are nothing more than cicadas, particularly in this world.

This is what Lawliet tells himself when he kisses Light, moves his lips to the hollow of his throat and rests there as he feels Light’s hand cup his own. Indisputably, Light wants L to believe him - the question is if he wants Lawliet to believe him, too. Uncertainty is at war with sympathy, or love, or whatever it could be called. 

_I can’t let him go. Can’t let him out of the handcuffs._

“This isn’t rational,” Light mumbles at one moment, and Lawliet knows his voice would be more shrill if only they were more awake and not half-melted into the same being.

“Nothing about this has ever been,” L says in turn, pulling back somewhat and chewing on his thumb. “Nothing about my response to you could ever be.”  He pauses for a moment.  “You see… You are Kira. I’ve spent my whole life being childish.”  He accents the words by leaning down and leaving an almost inquisitive kiss on Light’s nose. “Mmm… I suppose there’s no reason to figure I would’ve changed now.”

_Violent delights have violent ends._

Lawliet considers Light with an impulsive eye. He wants to say:

_Run away with me._

But they're so close.  

He's never been able to make his decisions based on feeling alone. He's never cared to; never known how to navigate anything so foreign to him. Now is no exception. 

He sees the facts. 

 Light has no memory of being Kira. 

 Anyone but Lawliet - the great detective L - would have given up by now. 

 The fact remains, Lawliet realizes as he stares down, if he keeps Light with him, like this, perfectly unchanged, Kira wouldn't come back.

 So it comes down to this:

  _Do I want Light? Or do I want Kira?_

  _Can they be separated at all?_

 Lawliet keeps his thoughts quiet, and kisses Light while keeping his eyes open and trained on the splash of dark strawberry red against the crisp ivory of the pillow. Light is strikingly, unabashedly beautiful, and somehow doesn’t look away from Lawliet.

 As if in parallel worlds at the same moment, L whispers "I love you" at the same time as Light snaps up, at the same time as he leans forward, and at the same time as L imagines Light’s voice - "I am Kira" - and sickness fills their stomachs at the same times that warmth does.

 Rapture flickers through Light's eyes as he stares up at Lawliet with the smallest of smirks dancing across his lips.  He looks like he’s stumbled upon an unexpected gift.

 “I knew you loved me.”

 Lawliet shakes, ever so slightly, as Light pulls at his shirt’s hem.

 Love, perhaps not even that. But it’s something.

 Lawliet leans down and presses his forehead against the curve of Light’s neck until he becomes a stranger to himself.

 


End file.
